


Clay’s Eleven (The Max Job)

by mific



Category: Leverage, The Losers (2010), The Losers - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Fix-It, Con Artists, Crossover, F/M, Fanfiction, Heist, Humor, Light BDSM, M/M, Multi, Roque is not a complete dick, Team Clay's Eleven, the Ducati doesn't die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4586916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Clay had that thinky look he got sometimes – mostly before coming up with his latest insane plan."</p><p>
Or, what might have happened in Losers movieverse if they didn't go it alone, but brought in the Leverage crew to help them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clay’s Eleven (The Max Job)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Losers Big Bang 2015. This begins more or less in Losers movie canon, but although it parallels Losers movieverse more than anything else, it heads off in its own AU direction for most of the fic. A few lines of dialog were borrowed from the movie, to set the initial scene. Huge thanks to Kisahawklin for a great beta job which considerably improved the story.
> 
> Despite the title, this turned out to have nothing at all to do with "Ocean's Eleven", other than that the Losers and Leverage crews add up to eleven. Mostly. When they're not wandering off. I tell you, it was like herding _cats_.

 

Jake was still riding high when they got the van they’d literally _airlifted_ out of Max’s convoy to their ops base in the disused warehouse outside Miami. He hooked up the last cable and waited impatiently for the drive to reveal all. Drumming his fingers on the table, he looked up, grinning. “Man, that was seriously cool. We snagged that goddamn van like, like an archer fish zapping a dragonfly!”

The Losers stared at him blankly. “Too much _Discovery Channel_ ,” Cougar muttered. Jake ignored him, too busy trying to find a workaround to access the drive's contents. Stymied, he tried a decryption program he'd stolen from the CIA and customized, waiting impatiently for it to run its course.

Alisha snorted. “Cool indeed. Except for Pooch smashing our prize into a giant donut.”

Pooch rounded on her. “Hey – that was your damn fault, lady, for distracting me. They've got signs on buses ‘do not talk to driver while vehicle is in motion’. Those things're there for a goddamn reason!” He subsided, glowering. “You try flying a helo with a heavy-ass armored van swinging off a belly cable like a frigging yo-yo.”

“Yeah, yeah, Pooch, great flying. You’re an ace,” said Clay. “Jensen? You got anything yet?”

“Fuck,” Jake said, staring at the screen. “As we kind of expected, Goliath, the multinational motherfucking manufacturer of everything, turn out to be paranoid suckers. I'm completely locked out. Without a decryption key, you're looking at a really cool paperweight.”

Roque went ballistic, of course. Jake figured it was partly since he and Clay were both balling Aisha, but Roque was on a hair-trigger at the best of times, always ready to make free with the giant knives. In the end they all had to pile on and haul him off her.

Right before the van heist Jake’d spent some time lying beside Cougar in the sweaty Florida night coming down from a truly astounding blow job, expounding on his theory about how Aisha was so badass it stood to reason she’d need both Roque _and_ Clay. He figured all that ferocity had to go somewhere – most likely angry fight sex was the only kind the three of them ever had. That was probably why she’d warned _him_ off, Jake had mused – he was a lover, not a fighter. Cougar’d growled threateningly and Jake'd hastily added he’d only been fooling, cozying up to Aisha like he had. He’d just been trying to get Cougs all riled up so they could have some edgy sex of their own. It’d worked, but Cougar fucking him into the mattress sure hadn’t made sitting around in that puke-yellow Pinto any easier.

His ass was a little tender even now, as Clay and Roque wrapped up their dominance dance and the knives finally got sheathed, and about goddamn time. Jake went back to staring at his laptop screen where the Goliath drive interface was telling him to FUCK RIGHT OFF. Great, Max was still in the wind, and all they had was this smooth bastard of a drive, locked up tighter than a choirboy’s ass.

Aisha gestured at the screen “Whatever it is, we can use it against him.” She stared defiantly around at them all. “It's _leverage!”_

Roque made a disgusted noise, but Clay had that thinky look he got sometimes – mostly before coming up with his latest insane plan. He turned, and pointed at the laptop. “The drive’s proprietary tech built by Goliath, right?” Jake nodded. “So the algorithm's probably on the mainframe at Goliath.” Jake nodded again, reluctantly, because he could see where this was going, and it wasn’t just insane, it was _suicidal_.

“Clay, no, we can’t–” he tried, but Clay held up a hand.

“We’re going to need to hit Goliath Worldwide headquarters. And,” he grinned at Aisha, all teeth and stubble, “Leverage is _exactly_ what we’ll need.” He beamed at them.

“What?” Pooch asked, frowning. “To get inside? You know someone in there?”

“Oh, I know some people, but not in Goliath.” Clay said, still grinning. “We’re going to need a second team. Jake, you’re damn good, but we need Hardison as well.”

“Hey, no, not that fucker Hardison.” Jake was on his feet. “I can hack rings around him any damn day of the week!”

“Yeah, with mil-tech, sure. But this is industrial. Proprietary. He’s the ace on the corporate side.” Cougar watched them both, eyes narrowed, reserving judgement.

“But Clay!” Jake’s hands clutched at the air, trying to convey how he felt about this terrible fucking idea. “Hardison doesn’t work alone anymore; he’s part of a crew, joined up with that psychopathic thieving little–”

“Parker,” Clay added helpfully, nodding. “She can steal anything. Might come in handy at Goliath, right?”

“Whoa,” said Pooch. “Didn’t they team up with that ex-black ops dude?” He cast an anxious glance at Roque. “Spencer.”

“Spencer?” spat Roque. He slammed a knife into the table-top and spun away. “I _hate_ that fucker.”

Aisha frowned. “Thought you said he saved your life, that time in Manila.”

“ ’s _why_ I fucking hate him,” Roque muttered, slumping down on a crate, face in hands. “Shit, shit, _shit_.”

Jake groaned. “Clay, this is never–”

“We’re flying to New York tomorrow so I can talk with Nate Ford,” Clay said, glaring around at them. “So you’ll all just have to play nice together.”

There was a babble of questions, curses and angry protests.

 _“Shut the fuck up!”_ Clay said. “Jesus! Max took the lives of those innocent kids. He took _our_ goddamn lives and we’re going to have to steal them back, so we need thieves and grifters on our side. Max’s CIA, yeah, but he’s based in the corporate world and we’re soldiers – this shit’s out of our league. Suck it up and deal – Aisha’s right. We need _leverage_.”

+0+0+0+0+

“So, Colonel, you asked to see me?” Nate sipped his latte, eyeing Franklin Clay carefully. He didn’t look much like a military hot-shot in his crumpled black suit and creased white shirt, no tie and a couple days of stubble. Nate figured it was an affectation. Hardison had run traces on all the members of the so-called “Losers” and reported they’d been back in the States for several weeks now, not stuck in some South American jungle without a razor.

Clay's face was lined; he looked like he’d gone a few rounds with life and come out second best. Nate hadn’t heard of this “Losers” bunch until a few days ago, when a retired military friend, Coleman, had made contact and said they needed Nate’s help. With a name like that, Nate could see why.

“General Coleman vouched for me, right?” asked Clay, toying with his espresso. Black, no sugar, typical macho choice, Nate thought, amused.

“He did,” Nate said. “For you, and Porteous, Jensen and Alvarez. He had a few misgivings about Captain Roque, though. And I’m also concerned about this mystery woman Aisha.”

Clay scowled. “Where the fuck did you get all–”

Nate raised an eyebrow. “You’re not the only ones capable of surveillance, Colonel.” He leaned back and crossed one knee over the other. Unlike Clay, his own dark-gray suit was immaculate, complete with discreetly matching silk tie and brushed aluminum cuff-links.

Clay shook his head. “ _Hardison_ ,” he said, like it was a curse. “I fucking _told_ Jensen he’s good.”

Nate nodded. “And Eliot and Parker to track your movements. That’s how we got the shots of this Aisha woman. Hardison IDd her using facial recognition software and some of his backdoor hacks into government agency counter-terrorism databases. You’re keeping interesting company, Colonel.”

“Look, call me Clay. Yeah, I guessed she’s got a…past, but we’ve all got that, right?” He gave Nate a knowing look. Nate let him have a head-tilt in return. Clay blew out a breath and hunched over his coffee, big brawler’s hands dwarfing the delicate cup. “She’s in with us ’cause we’re after the same bad guy. He killed her father. We need your help to catch this guy – he’s a rogue CIA agent, codename Max. He’s got some power-hungry agenda of his own – gone off-mission big-time and he’s been using his CIA contacts to run heroin and make himself a fortune. Tried to kill us in Bolivia.”

“Revenge?” Nate asked. “My crew don’t do that. Well, not straightforward tit for tat stuff.”

“No, there’s more. Like I said, he’s stockpiling funds. And weapons. He’s got some angle on the latest smart bombs.” He gave Nate a hard stare. “Hardison vouched for Jensen, right? I know they’re like two roosters in a henhouse, squaring off, but that’s 'cause they’re both damn good at what they do.” Nate nodded and Clay went on. “So Jensen found out Max’s commissioned a bunch of these experimental eco-bombs called ‘snukes’ – sonic nuclear warheads. So-called ‘clean bombs’. Rip an entire city apart with no radioactivity. Max plans to hock the damn things off to some of the worst regimes you can think of, worldwide.”

Nate uncrossed his legs. “Well, Clay, that’s a worry, but it’s still not really our thing. Saving the world?” He shrugged. “We set our sights a little closer to home.”

Clay stared down at the table top. “You know we were a black-ops team? Max was our CIA controller in Bolivia. We were supposed to take out a cartel kingpin’s compound, but a busload of kidnapped kids arrived just before the air strike.” He looked up, and his eyes weren't cool or calculating anymore. “We got the kids out and killed the drug lord, but Max called in a hit on the rescue helo we’d loaded all the kids into." Clay looked away and swallowed; his voice was tight when he spoke again. "Twenty-five kids, incinerated. It was meant for us, Ford." Clay gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, and glared at Nate. "Max is a fucking psychopath. He killed those kids – hell, he wanted us to leave them in the compound to get blown up in the air strike – and he’s hunting us down, ’cause we know too much about him.”

Nate chewed his lip. Twenty-five kids, and Clay was torn up about it. Maybe these Losers guys weren’t entirely full of shit. “Still, Max is CIA and black-ops – more your neck of the woods than mine, Clay. Why would you need my team?”

Clay sat back a little, maybe sensing Nate was warming to him. He spread his hands and grinned disingenuously. “We’re just simple soldiers, Ford.”

Nate snorted. Yeah, right. Clay smirked. “No, really. Max works just as much in the corporate world. We need to steal his cash to put a stop to his plans with those snuke things. We’re going to need to run a complex op to break into his corporate base of operations. We need experts.”

“A long con, huh?” Clay nodded. “Well, if there’s cash involved, Parker’ll be in.” Nate pursed his lips, thinking. “I don’t know if Eliot and Roque’ll work together, though. They seem to have some kind of history.”

“I’ll deal with Roque,” Clay said confidently. “And Aisha.”

Nate’s eyebrows rose. “That’s quite a handful there, from what I’ve been told.”

Clay grinned. “Yeah, it sure is.” He seemed to be relishing the prospect and for a moment Nate found himself doubting his read on the man. Was he a suicidal fuck-up after all? Then Clay sobered. “No, really. I’ll handle my team. They know what matters. We all want our lives back, without Max screwing us over. Living off the grid’s not easy.”

“Yeah, you’re new to that, I guess,” said Nate. He considered Clay. “And Max? What are your plans for him?”

“Oh, we plan to kill him,” Clay said evenly. “And most likely his side-kick Wade Travis too – he’s a nasty piece of work.”

Nate nodded. “So, you want our help running a long con involving at least one murder, to steal an illegally-gained fortune from a powerfully connected ex-CIA super-villain bent on world domination – because he killed a bunch of kids in the jungle and he’s now hunting you down.”

“Yeah,” said Clay, “that about covers it. You in, Mr. Ford?”

“Or what – you’ll have to shoot me?” Nate asked, crossing his legs again and leaning back. “Why’d you think I picked an outdoors café? Eliot’s had a bead on you the whole time.”

“Yeah, I figured. And Alvarez – Cougar, we call him – is up in that office block with a sniper rifle trained on you.” Clay gestured behind his shoulder with a thumb.

“Well, then.” Nate picked up his latte again and sipped it. “I can see this is going to be an interesting partnership. Call me Nate.”

+0+0+0+0+

“Told you it wouldn't be a pushover,” Eliot said, pressed back against the wall of the concrete cube housing the Goliath building’s roof-exit. The faint whuppa-whuppa of Pooch’s helo died away in the distance.

Beside him, Parker’s mouth tightened as she worked on the lock. “I could’ve gone down in a harness and cracked the guy’s office like an egg.”

“Not in broad daylight, and even if you did, then what? You’d still need Hardison or their guy Jensen to access the system.”

Parker grimaced and tried another pick. “We could’ve done that window-washer thing again. Why’d one of them get to be the grifter anyway? That’s Sophie’s job.”

Eliot scanned the rooftop. Helo landing pad, air vents, blue sky beyond. “Harder for her to con both herself and Jensen into the HR guy’s office. Messengers’re almost invisible in places like this. You done?”

Parker made a face and put a hand to her earbud. “Hardison. We’ll have to blow it. Alarm’s off?” Hardison confirmed they were clear.

Eliot slapped a small C4 charge on the lock and set the timer, pulling Parker back around the corner of the building. A quiet whump and a brief rain of debris, then he was kicking in the remains of the reinforced door.

No one in the small lobby. Two elevator doors faced them.

“It’s the right elevator for the CEO’s suite?” Eliot asked Hardison, imagining him hunched over his laptop back at base.

“ _Your_ right,” Hardison said in his ear. “Do _not_ take that one. Take the other. Twenty-third floor, Anderson, human resources. You know the floor-plan.”

Eliot glanced at Parker, who was, like him, wearing a Goliath security uniform and ID badge. She looked good. “Ready?”

“ _I_ am,” she said. “Turn around.” She brushed his back off. “You always get crap on you the way you like hugging walls.” She squeezed his ass. “You’ll do.”

“Getting a little handsy there, Parker,” Eliot said, grinning.

“Hey!” Hardison protested in their ears. “Quit dicking around trying to get me hot ’n bothered and get down to the twenty-third goddamn _floor_.”

They got in the elevator and Parker pushed the button. “Well, you know, man,” Eliot said, just to be a dick. “We wouldn’t be having to crack this place if you’d been able to hack the drive. I get that that Jensen dude wasn’t up to it, but I have to say, I’m disappointed in you.”

Parker pulled a face at him, watching the floor numbers flash down from seventy. Fifty-one, fifty, forty-nine.

Hardison spluttered in his ear. “No one could have cracked that drive. Not even god.”

Another voice broke in. Jensen’s, sounding stressed. “Okay, guys. Got it, but I think the secretary’s called sec–”

“Skippy?” said a faint voice in the background. That was Jensen’s fake IT name – had Goliath security found him?

“Look,” Jensen said to whoever it was. “I know this probably doesn’t look–” A dull thud then sounds of running. “Sure do love a steel-framed briefcase,” Jensen panted. “I’m out the back way an' I’m…shit, cubicle farm, cubicle farm, I need an exit!”

Hardison cut in. “Circle around to the north side of the building. You’ll have cover. Eliot?”

Parker pointed up. Twenty-four, twenty-three. “We’re there,” said Eliot. The doors opened on a larger lobby, a wall of windows to their right. Jensen skidded in from the hallway in full IT geek costume, clutching the briefcase filled with his messenger gear.

Parker held the elevator door open. “We’ll need that ride again in five,” she told Hardison.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Eliot was out in the lobby, taking Jensen by the arm. Jensen blinked at him through the heavy-rimmed glasses, briefly startled by their security uniforms. “Oh, right, you’re–”

Behind him, three real Goliath guards in bullet-proof vests barreled into the lobby, guns pointed at Jensen. “Freeze!” Jensen dropped the briefcase and raised the arm Eliot wasn’t holding.

“We've got it covered,” Eliot said confidently, tightening his grip on Jensen’s arm in warning. “Found him trying to get in the elevator." The guns didn’t waver and the guards were looking past him, at Parker. Damn. They hadn’t meant to get up close and personal with actual Goliath security staff. Even in a big place like this, the guards were sure to recognise someone who looked like Parker – these places didn’t hire cute young women, just big burly guys. She’d refused to let Eliot do the job alone, though, paranoid about their new partners screwing up.

“Who the fuck are you?” the guard on the right said. His gun shifted to cover Eliot and one of the others trained his on Parker. “You’re not–”

“New hires,” said Eliot. “What, they didn’t tell you we were starting?” He didn’t hold out much hope for that gambit, and he didn’t like the way two of the guns were trained on the others. He let go of Jensen to free himself for action, calculating the angles and possible moves. High risk.

“Told you to _freeze_ ,” the guard said, glaring.

Beside him, Jensen brought his hands slowly down to point at the guards like they were pistols. What in hell was he doing, dicking around like some grade school kid playing cops and robbers?

“I am a lethal killing machine,” Jensen said, deadpan. Eliot made an incredulous face at him. Jensen ignored it. Eliot glanced back at Parker, who was watching them with slitted eyes.

Jensen was yammering on with some crap about a government experiment turning him into a dangerous telekinetic and how they’d done spooky anal stuff to him—the fuck? Eliot stared at him, disbelieving.

Hardison groaned in his ear. “Goddamn amateur dramatics. Cougar? You’re on.” Cougar? That was the other team’s sniper. Eliot glanced at the window-wall. He edged away from Jensen, checking Parker was safely back by the elevator.

The boss guard had had enough. “Telekinetic your way out of _this_ ,” he said, stepping forward with a set of plastic cuffs.

“Pow!” Jensen said, gun-hand jerking. There was a sharp crack a split second later and the guard dropped. Eliot’s head whipped around to the glass wall, where a bullet hole had appeared. “Pow!” The left-hand guard dropped. They weren’t dead, not even out cold. The sniper’d aimed for the vests, using rounds that would knock the wind out of them without killing. Eliot wondered what would have happened if they hadn’t been wearing vests.

The third guard was looking terrified. Unpredictable. Eliot had had it with this shit. He exploded into action, sweeping the guy’s legs out with a kick and punching him in the head. Then he trussed all three guards with their own cuffs. The first two were still winded.

Jensen was giving the sniper a cheerful thumbs up through the bullet-crazed glass wall. He looked back at Eliot. “I could’ve taken that last one down as well. No need for the Rambo shtick.”

“He was about to lose it and you weren’t wearing a vest,” Eliot said. “And your buddy couldn’t shoot him ‘cause you were in the way.”

Jensen snorted. “I bet Cougs could've–”

“Jesus. Shut the fuck up and get in the goddamn elevator,” Eliot said, kicking the briefcase through the doors and pushing the jerk in after it. Parker pressed the seventieth floor button.

“No need to get rough, dude,” Jensen said, pouting.

“Rule One,” said Eliot. “You do the hacking, I do the hitting. When we’re in the hitting phase of things you shut the fuck up and let me handle it.”

“But–” Eliot grabbed Jensen and slammed him up against the elevator wall, arm across his throat. Jensen was stronger than he looked in the stupid IT nerd outfit, but after a second he stopped struggling, watching Eliot warily.

“Rule Two. You got a secret plan you cooked up with your buddy, you tell the rest of us about it _before_ the goddamn job, you hear?”

Jensen nodded, eyes wide. Eliot released him and turned away, fuming. “And Hardison? That goes for you as well. Cooking shit like that up in some cozy little hackers club is _not_ acceptable.”

“Sorry, man,” Hardison sounded abashed. “Things are still…shaking down with the two crews, know what I mean? Alvarez insisted on positioning himself as back-up. They don’t know what you can do. Well, I guess they've got _some_ idea now.”

“We’ll deal with you later, man,” Eliot promised. He looked across at Parker, who smirked at him. “Parker’s looking forward to tanning your ass.”

“Yeah, I. Later, okay.” Hardison swallowed audibly, sounding a little breathless. “Chopper in three,” he added.

Jensen looked at Eliot, then Parker. “So, like, that part about tanning his ass. That was a figure of speech, right? You’re not actually going to…spank him?”

Eliot ignored him, watching the floor numbers shift upwards. Sixty-five, sixty-six.

“Naw,” said Parker, leaning on the wall beside Jensen, arms crossed. “I prefer a paddle.”

Jensen groaned. “You can't tell me stuff like that! I've got a very overactive visual imagination and–”

The door pinged open and Parker stepped out into the trashed roof-lobby. Close above, the helo’s rotor thudded loudly, drowning out speech.

Eliot grabbed the briefcase and pushed Jensen through the door.

+0+0+0+0+

“Hoo, yeah,” said Hardison, making gimme-gimme motions the second Jake came through the door. “Bring that baby to momma.”

Jake sneered and patted the pocket holding the flashdrive with the downloaded algorithm. “The man who scored the data is the man who’ll be _using_ the data.” He gestured at the laptop with the Goliath hard drive attached, which Hardison was bogarting. “Move it, sunshine.”

Behind him, Clay and that Nate guy were debriefing Spencer about the mission while the woman called Sophie listened in. Aisha and Roque were playing cards in a corner and Pooch was messing about outside with the helo. Cougar perched on a nearby couch, watching Jake and Hardison from under his hat while he cleaned his rifle on a crate.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Hardison, who was being a dick, held out a hand. “C’mon, your boss brought me in because of my special skills with proprietary tech. I appreciate you working the sharp end of the job this time – not that I couldn’t have handled it with considerably less grandstanding – but quit stalling and give me the–”

“That,” Jake said, leaning over the table to glare at the annoying jerk, “was not grandstanding. That was _finesse_.”

Parker, back in her black ninja outfit, brushed past him and slithered into Hardison’s lap, looking supremely pleased with herself. She smooched Hardison, smirked at Jake and produced a flashdrive, waving it triumphantly between two fingers. Hardison snatched it up, slotted it in and began typing.

“What? How the fuck–” Jake was outraged. He slapped his pocket and sure enough that little sneak had picked it clean. Jake snarled, turning to Clay. “Fuck, Clay, she took the damn thing right out of my–”

“Suck it up, Jensen,” said Clay. “I don’t give a shit who cracks the Goliath drive as long as one of you does.” Nate and Sophie were grinning.

Jake threw his hands up and plonked himself down beside Cougar. “Did you _see_ that?” he said, steaming. Cougar shot him a sidelong look and gave him a sympathetic shoulder bump. Jake sat back, scowling, watching Hardison crack the drive with the algorithm Jake had risked life, limb and liberty to obtain. The blonde ninja thief perched on the table beside Hardison, swinging her legs. “Goddamn bitch even looks like Catwoman,” Jake muttered, shaking his head. “I’m just saying, man. Cats. Not to be trusted.”

“Not that shit again,” Pooch said, sinking into a nearby chair and handing Jake a beer. He set one down beside Cougar, who tipped his hat in thanks. “What've you got against pussy?”

Jake snorted. “I’m going to tell Jolene you said that.” He took a drink and wiped his mouth.

Pooch gave him a look. “No, you're _not_.”

“Well, no,” said Jake, gesturing with the bottle. “ ’cause I don’t have an actual freaking _death_ wish.” Pooch rolled his eyes and Cougar grinned under the hat brim.

“Okay, okay,” Hardison called. “Gather ’round, children.” The others wandered over. Jake sat up, setting his beer on the coffee table.

“What you got?” Clay asked.

“It’s what this Max dude’s got,” said Hardison, gesturing at the laptop screen. “A cool $400 mill for brokering four of those snuke things.” He shook his head. “That is one dumb name. Sounds like a cartoon dog.”

“Yeah, Clay said, frowning. “What they do’s not such a fucking joke, though. Just one of those things could rip this city apart.”

Parker was draped over Hardison’s shoulder, staring at the screen. She looked up at Nate. “We’re stealing it, right?” She turned to Hardison. “You can do that, now you’ve cracked it?”

“Baby,” Hardison said, “it's not that simple. This is just a record of what Max’s been up to. It’s not the actual money.”

Parker pouted. “Well, where _is_ the money so we can steal it?”

She was damn persistent, Jake thought. Like one of those things that latched on and you had to prise their jaws off to make them let go. A wolverine? Maybe he meant a gila monster. A sneaky, thieving little gila monster.

“Yeah, I’m in,” Roque said, coming to stand beside Clay. He crossed his arms. “Sooner we clean him out, sooner we get our lives back. Where’s the stash?”

Hardison shrugged. “I've got bad news and good news. Bad news is, Max already converted most of it to cash and there’s no record of where he squirreled that away. Turns out, though, the CIA owns a whole bank – well, _Max_ owns the bank, not like the CIA knows a damn thing about it. It’s in London – the CCI Bank. And there’s a cool 100 million in bearer bonds sitting in a safe deposit box right there, as payment for the last snuke.”

“Only 100 million?” Parker pouted at Hardison.

“He already converted the rest,” said Hardison. He waved Jake over. “Come see, if you want.”

Jake wanted, but he was fucked if he’d jump up at Hardison’s say so. He relaxed into the couch and blew on his fingernails. “I’m not a big fan of sloppy seconds.”

“Jensen,” said Clay tightly. “Go check his fucking _work_.” Hardison scowled but vacated the chair.

Jake grinned and sauntered over. “Don’t worry, man,” he said to Hardison, looking up, fingers poised over the keyboard. “I’ll give you at least an E for effort.”

A few minutes later he sat back and cracked his knuckles. “Yeah,” he said reluctantly. “I get the same.” Hardison rolled his eyes. “All we can access is this 100 mill in the CCI Bank, and for less than a week, at that.” Hardison frowned, then came and peered over Jake’s shoulder. “Here, see?” Jake pointed at the file he’d decrypted. “Max is moving the bonds in six days.” Hardison grunted.

“Well,” Parker said judiciously. “A hundred mill is a hundred mill. I say we do it.”

Clay looked at Nate. “You in? This’ll seriously cramp Max’s style.” Nate looked at Spencer, who nodded, and at Hardison, who said “Yeah, okay, even if it means I have to work with this smart-ass.” He clapped Jake on the shoulder.

Jake squinted up at him. “Ditto.” He looked across at Cougar. “Cougs?”

Cougar stared at the floor for a second, then lifted his head. “Don’t care about the money. I want Max. How does this get us Max?”

Clay spread his hands. “It’s a step closer and there might be other stuff in the safe deposit box that’ll help us track him. At the very least it’ll bankroll us to keep on his tail.”

“And pulling his tail might make him do something stupid,” Jake said.

Cougar nodded. “Then, si, I am in.”

Clay looked over to where Aisha was sitting cross-legged on a packing crate. “Aisha?”

She lifted one shoulder. “I, too, would rather just kill Max, but my funds are not limitless and as you say, this may lead us to him.”

Nate turned to Sophie, who was standing beside him, watching them all. “Sophie?”

She took Nate’s arm and smiled. “How could I resist a trip to my old alma mater? Besides, there’s no way you’ll get inside a London bank without a grifter.”

“Or get away after without a driver,” said Pooch. “Like Clay said, this is all we've got, and it’s a lead.” He shrugged. “Plus, the Pooch has a family to support.”

“Okay,” said Clay, clapping his hands together. “We’re robbing a bank.”

+0+0+0+0+

“Oh yeah,” said Parker, “they’re definitely doing it.”

Eliot checked the cuffs again, making sure they weren’t too tight on Hardison’s wrists. “What, all of them?”

“I’m not sure,” Parker said. She rummaged in the toy chest and pulled out her favorite paddle. “Jensen and the guy with the hat, for sure.” She swished the paddle through the air, enjoying the sound it made. “Not the pilot, though. He’s got a wife somewhere.”

“What about the other three?” Eliot asked, stripping off his clothes. Parker was still in her all-black outfit, and Hardison was already naked, face down on the bed. Eliot gestured at him. “Up on his knees?”

“Yeah,” said Parker, narrowing her eyes as she planned the scene in her head. “Better access that way.” She pursed her lips, considering. “The others? Yeah, I think they’re fucking, but I’m not sure they actually like each other.”

“That going to fuck up the job?” asked Eliot, nudging Hardison up onto his knees and binding a length of soft rope around each bent leg, calf and thigh, so he couldn’t straighten them. He splayed Hardison’s knees a little wider so his ass was up in the air and tucked a cushion under his chest to raise his face up off the bed. Hardison rested his forehead on the sheet and took a deep, shaky breath. Eliot stroked a hand down his spine.

“Nah, I don’t think so. It’s just their thing,” Parker said, wandering up to the head of the bed and massaging the back of Hardison’s neck. He turned his face toward her, opening one eye.

“Quit gossiping about the goddamn Losers and get on with it,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m dying here.”

“You want me to paddle your ass?” Parker asked, grinning.

“Yeah, obviously,” Hardison said. She raised an eyebrow. “I mean, yes, please.” He dropped his head down again. “Please, Parker. Please.”

“You want a plug?” she asked. Hardison nodded. “I didn’t hear that,” Parker said, mock-severe.

“Yeah, a plug, please,” Hardison groaned.

“Well, all right, then,” Parker said cheerfully. She nodded at Eliot who got the lube and a bright pink plug out of the chest. He knelt behind Hardison, cock half-hard, and began working Hardison’s ass open with one slick finger, then two. Hardison groaned and his knees slid a little wider, tilting him forward. Once he had three fingers in and Hardison was lifting his ass in mute entreaty, Eliot lubed up the plug and worked it into place. Hardison whimpered.

Eliot stepped back, admiring the way the pink end of the plug looked against Hardison’s dark skin and the way Hardison was rocking his hips slightly, like he couldn’t help himself. “Pretty,” he said. He looked at Parker. “You going to peg him?”

“Nah,” Parker said. “You can have his ass tonight. Bring him back closer to the end of the bed so I can use his mouth after he’s had his punishment. He’s got a lot to make up for.” Hardison groaned again, and Eliot loosened the chains on his cuffs and moved him back a little so there was room for Parker to get in and lie against the head of the bed in front of him. Eliot put some extra pillows there and Parker grinned at him. He was so considerate – always planning ahead. He rejoined her at the foot of the bed and she pulled him into a kiss, reaching down to give his cock a stroke. It was nearly fully hard, now, and he moaned and opened his mouth for her tongue.

Parker broke off the kiss regretfully, but Hardison was getting desperate. She kissed Eliot on the nose and pushed gently on his shoulder. He went down gracefully, kneeling with his knees apart, hands quiet on his thighs, cock hard and darkly flushed. He shook his hair back and smiled up at her sweetly. Parker carded a hand through his hair, smiling back.

She turned to the bed and began warming Hardison up with light strokes, then once she judged he was ready, laid firmer strokes across his buttocks. She had to gauge what he could take from experience and subtle changes in the sheen and texture of his skin, as his ass never showed color. He was writhing in the bonds now, making soft whimpers and gasps. From time to time Parker ran her hand over his ass cheeks, feeling the slightly raised welts. He liked that, pressing back into her hand.

When Hardison was sobbing and pulling on his cuffs, hips jerking, she stepped back, breathing hard. She looked down. Eliot’s eyes were blown dark, and he was staring at Hardison, cock standing up against his belly. Parker pulled him up and kissed him again and he rubbed himself against her helplessly. “Strip me,” she told him, and he loosened her top and slid it off efficiently, kissing her bare breasts reverently, then went to his knees again to undo her pants and slide them and her panties down, undoing her boots as he pulled off her clothing. He pressed his face into her thigh and sighed, and she stroked his hair again. “C’mon,” she said. “We need to look after Hardison.” He nodded, kissed her mound and then rose in one fluid movement and went to the bed, moving up to the headboard to undo the cuff on Hardison’s right hand.

Parker padded up to the head of the bed and undid Hardison’s left cuff, bringing his arm down and massaging his shoulder and neck muscles. He groaned. Eliot was doing the same on the other side. After a while, Eliot said “How you doing? You ready?”

Hardison nodded. “Yeah, please,” he said, voice thick with want.

Parker watched Eliot go back to the foot of the bed and run one hand over Hardison’s ass, as he carefully worked the plug free and set it aside on a towel. Hardison whimpered and Eliot glanced at Parker. She nodded and he positioned himself and pushed slowly in, eyes shut, biting his lip. Hardison gasped and Parker kneaded the back of his neck. “Good, huh?” she asked and he nodded blindly, whimpering as his hands clawed at the covers and he pushed himself back on Eliot’s cock.

When Eliot was all the way in he stilled, slitted his eyes open and sucked in a deep shuddering breath. Parker slid onto the bed, opening her legs wide and helping Hardison lift up so she could slip in underneath him. She lay back on the pillows and Hardison put one arm around her waist and opened her with his other hand, then put his mouth to work, tongue and long fingers busy.

Eliot began to thrust, trying to keep it slow and steady, and Hardison moaned around her clit, pressing into her as Eliot fucked him. Parker writhed and put her hands on his head, running her short nails over his scalp. It didn’t take long before she came, already worked up from the paddling, crying out and bucking up into Hardison’s mouth.

Eliot began fucking him harder. Hardison lifted his head—he liked his face free when he was close to coming—and Parker slid two fingers into his mouth. He made a harsh noise and sucked hard, eyes shut, clutching her hips.

Eliot’s face was flushed, his eyes glazed. He reached down and began jerking Hardison’s cock with every pump of his hips. “Want to come, Hardison?” Parker asked, pulling her fingers out of his mouth. Hardison moaned in a generally affirmative way. “Okay, you can come,” Parker said. She reached down and twisted one of his nipples, hard, and his eyes rolled back as he convulsed.

Eliot lost it, pounding into Hardison’s ass, and Parker grinned across at him. “C’mon Eliot,” she said. “Come for me, too.” He grunted and his eyes slammed shut as he froze, then jerked a few times, thrusting erratically before collapsing across Hardison’s back. Parker sighed happily and stroked whatever bits of them she could reach. “You’re such good boys,” she said.

She slipped out from underneath them and untied Hardison’s left leg, rubbing where the rope had left marks. She padded around to the other side and freed his right leg, massaging that thigh as well. Eliot grabbed the towel and cleaned Hardison’s ass, then himself. Parker used the bathroom while Eliot rubbed some arnica cream into Hardison’s skin. She was glad Nate had booked them decent hotel rooms, rather than expecting them to bunk down in that old warehouse the Losers were using. But then, Sophie would never have stood for that. She decided to have a bubble-bath in the morning.

Eliot had been kissing Hardison and massaging his legs. They both used the bathroom after Parker, then slid into bed behind her, Hardison curled around her back and Eliot spooned behind him, keeping them all safe. Hardison nuzzled Parker’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he said, voice still a little hoarse. She cuddled back into him and he wrapped his arms around her, yawning. “You really think Clay and Roque are doing it with that Aisha chick? She's pretty scary.”

“Oh, for sure,” said Parker. “You ask Sophie tomorrow. She was watching them – you know she can read anyone.”

“Huh,” said Hardison. Eliot reached over and squeezed Parker’s shoulder. She put a hand up to cover his, and fell asleep smiling.

+0+0+0+0+

Clay loosened his collar slightly as the limo, driven by Pooch in a dark green chauffeur’s uniform and peaked hat, pulled up to the curb outside the CCI bank in London. Clay loathed wearing ties and he felt like Sophie's goddamn dress-up doll in the charcoal pinstriped suit she’d picked out for him. He ran a hand over his chin, unaccustomed to the sleek feel of a perfect shave. There was no way to dress up his face, but Sophie and Nate had nodded approvingly when he’d donned the full costume. “Very nice,” Sophie’d said. “Just the kind of dangerous-looking action-movie boyfriend a rich daddy’s girl like Sarah would have.” Nate had wanted to play the role alongside Sophie but Clay didn’t trust the other team quite that much – not with Spencer and Parker as their security detail.

Sophie was dressed in a dark pink suit that would've cost them a small fortune if Parker hadn't liberated it. She dripped with pearls and diamonds – paste, but no one was going to see them close up. She was “Sarah Manchester,” a disgustingly rich heiress opening a safe deposit box at CCI accompanied by her consort and their bodyguards. Spencer and Parker were in plain black suits and ties, the earbuds they needed for the con blending in perfectly. Clay's hair was long enough to hide his, and Sophie's was concealed by her earrings.

Back in the Westminster hotel suite where they’d based themselves, Hardison and Jensen were hunkered down coordinating the con and checking the last recesses of the Goliath drive. Hardison had set up “Sarah’s” social media pages, adapting a stored Facebook profile he kept for that purpose. CCI had certainly been eager to give her an appointment – they were being met by a Ms. Duvauchelle from the bank’s senior management.

“Team Two in position?” Clay asked, as Spencer opened the limo’s door for Sophie.

“Yeah,” said Pooch. “Two cars back. They’ll circle the block and be ready when you need them.” Clay nodded.

The second team was Aisha, playing minor middle-eastern royalty, flanked by Nate as her business manager and Roque as security, with Cougar driving. Clay'd thought a full back-up team was overkill but Sophie had insisted, and Clay guessed the old adage about no plan surviving contact with the enemy applied to cons as well. He sure hoped this one didn’t turn into a clusterfuck.

They swept into the bank, Spencer and Parker convincingly blank-faced and Sophie cutting a swathe through minor flunkeys with a crystalline upper class accent. Their assigned  minion took them down to the vault floor in an elevator and ushered them into a comfortable ante-room lounge where Ms. Duvauchelle joined them. She chatted politely, sent the minion off to bring tea and biscuits, and guided an ostentatiously bored Sophie through various forms while checking her (Hardison-issued) driver's licence. Clay flirted with Ms. Duvauchelle – who he'd taken to calling "Ms. D", much to her ill-concealed annoyance.

Finally there was a ritualistic production of the two keys to the box, one of which was presented to Sophie. Ms. D kept the bank's guard key firmly in hand and a careful eye on proceedings and Clay began to see why Sophie'd insisted they have a second team – she wasn't going to be easy to distract.

Sophie was taken to the safe deposit box inner sanctum, Ms. D insisting Spencer and Parker stay in the ante-room, despite Sophie's protests that Daddy had given strict instructions that her valuables were not to be unguarded at any time. Clay used the opportunity to quietly comm Nate and set Team Two in motion. He, Parker and Spencer waited while Sophie and Ms. D both used their keys to unlock the decoy box. After a minute, Ms. D carried the empty box out to an adjoining curtained cubicle, and gave Sophie her privacy. Clay watched the curtain, knowing Sophie was dumping assorted costume jewelry into the box from her handbag.

As Parker had predicted, Ms. D stayed with them in the ante-room lounge. Clay gave her a big fake smile; he hated being trapped in places like this, bristling with security. He glanced at Spencer who looked like he enjoyed being locked in about as much as Clay. Parker, of course, was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed – in her element. Clay hoped like hell she was as good with locks as she thought she was.

It was taking too long; they needed to buy time so Aisha and her entourage could get here and distract the staff properly. Clay gave Parker the nod, and began flirting with Ms. D again,  relating an anecdote about a blockbuster movie he'd supposedly seen,mimicking explosions and gunfire. Ms. D tolerated his performance with pained politeness; chamber music soirées were probably more her thing. Behind her, Clay saw Parker speak briefly into her comm, cueing Sophie.

Strange gasping and whimpering noises began to emanate from the cubicle. Sophie emerged, clawing back the curtain and clutching her chest as she staggered forward, leaving the safe deposit box on the shelf, key in its lock and her handbag beside it.

Ms. D's head whipped around, but Clay was there before her, dashing over to support Sophie who was flailing and distressed, feigning hyperventilation. Spencer took Sophie's other arm and they lowered her onto a sofa. “Sarah’s claustrophobia flared up!" Clay said urgently. "She’s having an attack!”

Ms. D stood undecided, her head swiveling between the unattended safe deposit box and the drama with Sophie.

Clay added a note of panic. “It's because we're down here underground. She can't breathe!”

Ms. D moved toward the box in the cubicle. “I’ll just–” She paused, frowning. "But I'll need Ms. Manchester's assistance to–"

Sophie was now wheezing and incoherent, clutching hysterically at Spencer.

Clay grabbed Ms. D's arm. “Get a fucking _doctor!”_ he yelled. “She’s got a heart condition! If anything happens to her Mr. Manchester’ll make you wish you’d never been born!” He spun her and pushed her toward the door to the elevator hallway. “Get a goddamn doctor, _now!”_

Looking stunned, Ms. D opened the outer door to summon assistance. Clay heard Aisha’s voice from the direction of the elevators. About goddamned time – he tried not to sag with relief.

“There you are!” Aisha said commandingly. “You are two minutes late! I am not accustomed to being kept waiting. What is your name so I can report this insult to your superiors?”

“P-Princess Al-Fayed?” stammered the beleaguered Ms. D, drawn out into the lobby by this fresh disaster. “I’m so sorry, but the previous customer became unexpectedly unwell, and I–”

“This is unacceptable!” snapped Aisha, looking thunderous. She was swathed head to foot in a heavily embroidered black silk robe and veil, only her face free. Clay could see Nate beside her, frowning and saying something about their next appointment at the palace. Behind them, Roque glowered. Aisha started up again, haranguing Ms. D about the abysmal standards of service in Britain, compared to America.

Clay looked over his shoulder, but Parker was already bent over the door to the safe deposit vault, picks out. Ms. D had been lured out of view, dealing with Aisha's wrath in the hallway. "Jensen, you getting all this?" muttered Clay. " 'cause I sure as hell hope the bank's security cameras aren’t."

"Yeah, yeah, no sweat," Jensen said in his ear. "I isolated the cameras and looped the footage so they've got no visuals on you. Hardison's disabled the vault's motion sensors and the alarms. We've got it covered."

"Excellent," Clay said. Parker gave a thumb's up from the deposit box room door, pushing it open, and Clay nodded at Spencer, who was in the cubicle retrieving the paste jewelry from the safe deposit box. Spencer nodded and, with the handbag, slipped into the vault after Parker.

Clay helped Sophie up. "Let's take this show on the road," he said, steering her toward the hallway. Her sobbing increased in volume as they reached the doorway, blocking Ms. D's view of Parker and Spencer.

Behind him, Clay knew Parker would be picking the lock to Max's safe deposit box. It was tricky work as they lacked the bank's guard key so she'd have to use another pick in the second keyhole and get Spencer to operate it simultaneously. Parker had insisted they could do it – Clay sure as hell hoped she was right.

In the hallway, Aisha was in full flight, competing with Sophie. Clay made sure he was blocking the doorway behind her, trapping the desperate-looking Ms. D and a couple of stunned minions between the two teams.

“Where’s that goddamn doctor!” Clay snarled. “Sarah’s in a bad way and you people are useless. Not so much as a glass of water!”

“I will _not_ be interrupted by idiots!” Aisha spat. “Would you keep the Queen of England waiting? My father will not tolerate this. He will buy your worthless bank and wipe it from the face of the earth!”

Sophie drew herself up, swallowing her sobs. “I am Sarah Amelia Manchester and _my_ father could buy your tin-pot country ten times over. How _dare_ you address me in that manner!” She and Aisha went at it, faces flushed, gesticulating hands flashing fake gold and jewels against the stark black of Aisha’s robe.

Clay gritted his teeth and prayed for Parker and Spencer to be done already. What was taking so long? Even with this level of drama, they couldn't hold Ms. D off forever. Shit – maybe Parker hadn't been able to make the two-picks thing work after all? Another long minute, then he heard Spencer's voice on comms. "We're out." Thank Christ for that – Clay tried not to sag with relief.

He put a hand on Sophie’s arm. “Sweetheart. C’mon, you’re getting worked up again – these morons aren’t worth it. We're out of here. Got to get you to a doctor and get you some medication.”

Sophie was already moving and Jensen picked up on Clay's use of the agreed exit phrase and reinforced it. "Team One to the elevators." Spencer and Parker were there, falling into place behind Clay as he led Sophie away.

“But–” said Ms. D, obviously worried about the breach in SOP, Sophie's deposit box lying unattended in the cubicle, her key still in it.

Clay rounded on her. "We won't be needing that box, not after this disaster. Sarah's staff retrieved the valuables for her so you can cancel the contract." He glared. "You'll be hearing from Mr. Manchester's legal team."

“Legal team?” Ms. D said, looking harried.

“And another thing!” Aisha snarled, poking a finger at her and starting up again. Clay hustled Sophie into the elevator, Spencer and Parker close behind. Just before the doors hissed shut he heard Aisha again. “If you think I will do business with you after this appalling fiasco you are sadly mistaken. Come!” He imagined her gathering Nate and Roque in tow and sweeping after them to claim a second elevator. He grinned – she was a natural grifter.

The elevator door swished shut. "And that's Team Two to the elevators as well….So did you get them?" asked Jensen eagerly.

“Later,” said Clay. He looked a question at Parker, who was holding Sophie's handbag. The bag looked suspiciously light – not like it was stuffed with 100 mill of bearer bonds. Parker rocked her hand, smirking, and Clay made a 'what the fuck' face at Spencer.

“Later,” Spencer said.

Clay frowned, but then the elevator doors opened and they were sweeping back out through the main foyer, Sophie carving a path through customers and staff like a battleship. Behind them, the second elevator pinged and he imagined Aisha doing the same, Nate and Roque following like destroyers in her wake.

They piled into the limo and Pooch pulled smoothly out into traffic, causing a cabbie to lean on his horn and shout abuse out the window. Pooch gave him the finger. “Good thing it’s not goddamn rush hour, ’s all I can say,” he grumbled. “Look at this shit.”

“It’s London, darling,” Sophie said, her accent no longer sharp enough to cut glass. “History doesn’t leave a lot of room for four-lane carriageways.”

Turning to peer behind them, Clay saw Aisha, Nate and Roque get into the second car. Cougar tipped his peaked hat at Clay sardonically, maneuvering out into the busy road. Clay let out a breath, finally relaxing back into his seat.

+0+0+0+0+

“Whooeee!” Jake high-fived Hardison then collapsed back into his plush armchair. “They made it!” He grinned. “Aisha gave Sophie a run for her money there." Jake stood and stretched, realizing how tense he’d gotten. He took himself off for a bathroom break.

Hardison passed him a beer when he got back, taking a swallow from his own before speaking into his mic. “Pooch?” he said. “What’s your ETA?”

“Too fucking long,” Pooch said sourly. “Traffic’s a bitch out here.”

“Not going to put you at risk?” Hardison asked, frowning.

“Nah,” said Pooch. “We’re not actually gridlocked and we got far enough away, but we need to ditch the second team's car in five, then get back to base. It’ll take…maybe…30 minutes?”

"Closer to 40," Cougar said.

“Okay, guys,” Jake chipped in. “See you when we see you. Stay frosty.”

“Keep the comms open.” That was Clay.

“Will do,” Hardison replied. He typed something on his laptop and looked at Jake. "I disabled our mics." Jake raised his eyebrows. “Just temporarily. We’ll hear them if they need anything,” Hardison said.

Jake frowned. “What–?” Hardison beckoned him over to where he was set up on a sofa covered in some expensive fabric that looked like curtains, laptop on the glass-topped coffee table. Jake settled beside him, seeing Hardison had brought the Goliath drive screen back up again. “You found something else in there?”

“Maybe,” Hardison said. “Don’t know what it means. If it means anything…” He drilled down a few levels then highlighted some text.

Jake leaned in. “Wait, this is about…Aisha?” There, on the screen – Aisha…what…al-Fadhil? That was vaguely familiar, but where had he…no, wait. It was a bio? Born in the asscrack of nowhere in the Hindu Kush, blah blah blah, mother unknown, huh. Father…hang on…father… “What the fuck?” said Jake. He blinked, then read it again. _Ahmed Khalfan Fadhil._ “Her father was that fucker from Bolivia? The Cartel boss who was using kids as mules? The one Clay…” Fuck. What would she do once she knew it was Clay killed her daddy, not Max’s goddamn air strike? Crap, this was a mess.

“You didn’t know?” Hardison was frowning. “How bad’ll this fuck things up?”

“Pretty bad,” Jake muttered. His mind flashed through the options, sorting and discarding. Tell Clay later, when they got back? She’d have all her weapons then, as would Roque. She’d also have way more exit strategies. No – too many variables. Better to deal with it now, when she was contained, even if it was in a moving vehicle. He nudged Hardison aside and used the keyboard to reactivate their mics. “Hey, Pooch.”

+0+0+0+0+

Pooch was making a nice smooth left onto a ramp when Jensen’s voice sounded in his ear. “Yo.”

“Where're you at?”

“Ditched the second car in that parking lot like we planned so we're all in the limo now. Coming up on an overpass, trying to find a shortcut. Well, kind of a long way around really, but it gets us clear of some heavy traffic, so–”

“Hang in there, man, shit might get hairy.” Pooch glanced over at Cougar who was riding shotgun. Cougar shrugged.

Clay sat up and met Pooch’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, suddenly alert from where he’d been slouched back, seemingly drowsing. “Jensen?” he asked. “What’s up?”

“We…kind of got a situation, Clay.”

“Spill it.”

“Hardison and me, we've been checking over the drive, y’know, and we…well, Hardison did, he found this…this bio data they had on Aisha, ’cause her father was mixed up in Max’s shit. She’s _Fadhil’s daughter_. She’s Aisha _al-Fadhil.”_

All hell erupted in the back of the limo. Pooch winced and wished Aisha hadn’t ditched the all-enveloping robe as soon as she got in the car. Might’ve cramped her style a bit. He focused on keeping his speed and course steady so no one would get nosy about what was going on inside the car – lucky they had tinted windows. Cougar had swivelled around and looked about ready to go over the seat back, then he slowly relaxed.

“Give me the fucking knife, Roque!” That was Clay, panting and breathless. “Spencer’s got her pinned.”

“Everyone, calm down!” Nate's voice. “Clay? What the hell?”

Clay was ignoring Nate, focused on Aisha. Pooch couldn’t see what was going down but he guessed Spencer and Roque were sitting on her, on the carpeted limo floor. Way more luxurious surroundings than they usually had for their brawls, Pooch figured.

There was a spitting noise and Pooch winced. “Charming,” Clay said. “We’re going to sit you up so you can talk, and you’ll play nice, you hear?” Pooch could almost hear Aisha’s teeth grinding together, then she spat out a yes. More sounds of movement, then he could see them in the mirror, Roque and Spencer flanking Aisha, pinioning her arms, while Clay held a knife on her and the others watched, alarmed and puzzled, or in Parker’s case, intent.

“Now,” said Clay. “You want to tell me why we shouldn’t just open the goddamn car door and throw you off the side of this bridge?”

Pooch could think of a few reasons, notably the goddamn suicide doors on the limo’s central section that opened backward. What moron designed those? Plus, that bitch had nine lives, at least. Probably wouldn’t even dent her.

“I could have killed you any time,” Aisha muttered. Pooch rolled his eyes.

“I’m not seeing why that’s a reason not to throw you out the fucking window,” said Clay, voice cold. Man, he was pissed. But then Pooch hadn’t been sleeping with her – Clay never could resist the dangerous ones.

“I could have killed you any time,” Aisha gritted out again, “but I did _not_.”

“Biding your fucking time,” Roque growled.

“No, I–”

Nate cut her off. “This is all very fascinating, but someone needs to tell us what the fuck is going on. Clay?”

“She’s Aisha _al-Fadhil,_ ” Clay said.

“Yes? I already told you we ran a trace on her. So what else is new?”

“You didn’t tell us she was Fadhil’s goddamn _daughter_. He’s the drug kingpin we targeted in Bolivia, where Max tried to kill us. When she said Max killed her father, I never–”

“Nothing has changed.” Aisha glared at Clay. “My reasons for allying with you are the same. We both want Max.”

“Yeah, but…we were instrumental in that air-strike on Fadhil’s compound…” Clay trailed off.

“So I’m sure you can see why everyone’s got a few…trust issues,” said Nate, spreading his hands.

Aisha scowled. “Yes, your team were involved, but it was Max who planned it and ordered the strike that killed my father. He is the one most culpable.”

“Shit,” said Clay, rubbing his face tiredly.

Pooch looked at Cougar, who bit his lip. Clay had told them about the kid Fadhil’d used as a hostage, and about how he’d had to kill Fadhil to save the kid’s life. They were going to have to keep _that_ little secret buttoned up tight, or Clay’d end up with a knife in his gut.

Spencer looked across at Roque. “You frisked her?” Roque shrugged and checked Aisha out for concealed weapons. Nothing. “Okay,” said Spencer. He narrowed his eyes at Aisha. “You planning to give us trouble if we let go your arms?”

“No,” she said, still scowling. Spencer and Roque eased back, and Roque retrieved his knife from Clay and sheathed it.

Clay sat back and let out a breath. “Jesus. Adversity makes for strange bedfellows, I guess.”

“Hah!” said Parker, delighted. “I _knew_ you were doing it!”

Sophie put a hand on her arm. “Darling, it’s a figure of speech. Actually, it’s a misquote of _The Tempest.”_ She put a hand over her heart and declaimed in an odd, deep voice, while Spencer shut his eyes and groaned and Parker listened, open-mouthed. _‘Alas, the storm is come again! My best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no other shelter hereabout: misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past!’”_

“Wow – so it’s a play about, like, meteorology?” Parker asked.

“Not…exactly,” Sophie said, but Parker had lost interest and was looking wistfully out the window to her left.

“You sure we can’t throw her out the door? I’d’ve liked to see that.” She peered out the window. “It’s not that far down.”

“Yes, Parker, we’re sure,” Nate said quellingly. Aisha transferred her glare to Parker. Pooch reckoned Parker was probably grinning like a goddamn Cheshire cat.

The overpass had brought them back down into London's tangled mess of streets, so Pooch concentrated on getting through the traffic, headed for Westminster. He caught Cougar’s eye at the lights. Cougar shook his head and pulled his hat down. What the fuck had they gotten themselves into?

+0+0+0+0+

Jake grabbed Cougar when everyone got back to the hotel, and pumped him for the low-down on what had happened with Aisha. She was looking sullen, sitting off by herself in an uncomfortable-looking fake-antique chair with her arms crossed, tapping one foot and not making any eye-contact.

“Was okay in the end. But why’d you broadcast it on the comms?” Cougar asked.

Jake looked sheepish. “Figured with all of you, you’d be able to handle her, shut up in the limo like she was. Didn’t want a big old brawl back here where she’s got her guns.”

“Hmmm,” Cougar said. “But why not just call Clay on his mobile?”

“I…” Jake made a face. “Shit. Okay, that was pretty dumb. It’s that Hardison fucker's fault – he makes me stupid.”

“Is _bothering_ about Hardison makes you estupido, amigo,” Cougar said, and gave him a noogie.

Clay clapped his hands. “Okay, Parker. How’d we do?”

“No bonds in there,” Parker said. “He must’ve cleared it already.”

"We got nothing? For all that?" Roque was furious.

Parker smirked. "Didn't say we got nothing." She grinned at Spencer, who rolled his eyes.

"Parker doesn't like coming away empty-handed from a bank job," he explained. "We hit another couple boxes when there was nothing valuable in the Goliath one."

"Jesus," Clay said, annoyed. "I thought you were taking your sweet goddamn time."

"What'd you get?" Roque stared at Parker. She pouted, then produced a necklace from her breast pocket, diamonds and sapphires spilling through her hands.

"Very nice," Sophie said. "What else?" Parker made a face, then gave up two diamond bracelets and a heavy gold chain.

"Better than nothing," Roque said. "Even cut eleven ways." Parker glared at him.

Spencer shrugged. "No bonds or cash in the Goliath box, but–"

“But _what?”_ Clay said angrily. “We’re drawing a blank everywhere – just one goddamned dead-end after another!”

Spencer shrugged. “Yeah, well this may be a dead-end too, but there was something in there. Don't know what it means, though.” He pulled some folded papers out of his shirt and handed them to Clay, who spread them out on the coffee table.

“Looks like a site plan,” Nate said, leaning over. “Another Goliath base?”

“Says it’s Goliath, in L.A.,” Clay muttered. “Some sort of compound by the port.”

“Oh, hey.” Jake sat up and caught Hardison’s eye. “That rings a bell.”

Hardison nodded. “We found something like that in the drive. About a Goliath base at the Port of L.A.”

“Might be where he’s keeping those snuke things?” Nate suggested. “He’d have handy access to ship them in and out.”

“It’s big,” Clay said thoughtfully and oh, man, he was up to something again. Jake slumped back in his armchair and groaned. “He could hide a hell of a lot away in there,” Clay muttered, tracing the plan's outlines with a finger.

“Like $400 mill?” Parker asked brightly, spirits restored by her sparkly haul.

Clay gave her a shark’s grin. “Who knows? But I’m thinking we ought to head on over to L.A. and find out.”

+0+0+0+0+

Of course all the _real_ planning and scutwork fell on Jake. Well, and on Hardison, give him his due. They hacked the compound every way from Sunday and got aerial surveillance from the spy satellites of several dubious nations. (“Remind me never to go to North Korea,” Hardison said. “Why? We covered our tracks okay,” said Jake. “Yeah, just on principle,” Hardison said. “Their coding’s a fucking nightmare.”)

Everyone got caught up in it, with Nate and Clay at the center. As the plan evolved, Jake had to locate rock-climbing gear, big-ass wire-cutters and a cost-price Hummer. And weapons, of course, but that went without saying. Hardison made all the fake IDs – there were a lot of those.

Then there was the argument about whether they needed an EMP bomb, which Jake thought would be seriously fucking cool. “It’d take out the compound’s electricals like _that!”_ Jake said. “Just like those exploding toads that puff up so much they go kablooie!” He demonstrated by blowing up the brown paper bag their eggrolls had come in, smashing it with a satisfying **_POP!_**  Cougar rolled his eyes.

Spencer looked up from shoveling in Kung Pao Chicken with chopsticks, which it figured he’d be expert with. He probably knew fifty ways to _kill_ a person with chopsticks. “Too big to carry,” he said. “Impractical. Sophie needs to be able to get it in her handbag and they're not likely to let her through the gate with a heavy-ass duffel filled with an EMP bomb.”

“No, I think even _I_  would have some difficulty spinning that one,” Sophie agreed, dipping a wonton carefully in sweet and sour sauce.

"C4's the best bet," Pooch said.

“You guys are no fun," complained Jake. "Everyone uses C4."

Pooch shrugged. “ 'cause it’s lightweight and reliable.” Across from Jake, Cougar tilted his head in judicious agreement.

“And see?” said Hardison, stabbing a finger at the site plan. “The ladies’ bathroom here’s right through the wall from the main fuse room.”

“It’s like they _want_ us to break in,” Parker said happily.

+0+0+0+0+

“A double-pronged attack,” Clay announced.

Jake sighed. They all knew the plan, but Clay and Nate had insisted they go over it one last time.

Nate picked up the briefing. “Sophie, me and Hardison go in the main entrance, credentialed as CIA operatives come to audit the books. Goliath’s supposed to be a CIA front, so as long as our IDs check out–”

Hardison snorted. “These are _Hardison_ IDs. They’ll be fucking flawless.”

“Never doubted it for a moment,” Nate said smoothly.

None of the Losers could walk in the main gates – not with Wade Travis’s private army guarding the compound. All it’d take would be one merc recognising Roque or Clay and they’d have a shitfest on their hands. Spencer was high-risk as well; he’d worked all over, and Aisha was on too many hit-lists. Plus, the compound was huge, and they needed to get the Hummer inside somehow.

“Everyone else gets in here.” Clay indicated a stretch of tall, electrified chain-metal fence separating the Goliath base from the bankrupt and shut down freight company next door. It hadn’t been bankrupt a week ago, but Jake had temporarily transferred all its assets to a Nicaraguan chicken farm. He’d move them back when everything settled down after the job was done.

Spencer and Cougar had scouted it out and there was an old, disused side-gate in the freight company’s fence, secured with rusty padlocks. Then three or four meters of dusty cleared ground before Goliath’s electric fence loomed, plastered with warning signs. There was another gate there, also electrified. Clay figured it might have been a back way for Max to move goods in and out, before he got more powerful and just took over the whole damn place.

“But before that, I nip into the ladies and set up the C4 at the back of the last stall, to take out their fuse box through the wall,” Sophie continued.

Hardison nodded. “Meanwhile, I’ll be cracking the Goliath database on the pretext of the audit, to get more detailed site plans and hunt for the cash.”

“And the bombs,” said Cougar, from under his hat.

“Yeah, man,” Jake said, “and the bombs, which, you know, might be in the _same_ place, if those are the two things Max most wants to hide, right?” Cougar pursed his lips. “Well, okay, maybe that’d be a little too perfect, but it’s not _impossible_ ,” Jake said, spreading his hands.

“We’re not going to bank on it, Jensen, but if they’re dumb enough to keep all their eggs in one basket, that’d be convenient.” Clay looked around the room. “Okay – we’ve all got the burner phones Jake encrypted, and the armored Hummer’s ready to go. The riskiest time’s after the C4 blows, so let’s get the timing right.” He grinned around at them. “‘Operation David’ is go.”

“Hey, no, it’s not a frontal assault,” Jake protested. “We should call it ‘Operation Fiddler Crab’, cause there’s, like, a pincer strategy and one group’s bigger than the other, an–”

Clay glared at him. “We’re _not_ calling it Operation fucking Fiddler anything and you know goddamn well you don’t get to name things.”

“Yeah, but–”

Jake was still protesting when Cougar hauled him off to their room.

+0+0+0+0+

“Jensen is wrong about the name,” Aisha said from the door to Clay’s room.

Clay jumped. He hated how she did that – appearing silently like she’d teleported in or some freaky ninja thing. “Jensen’s _always_ wrong about naming operations, and seriously? We’ve got to cut off his access to those fucking nature programs.”

Aisha ignored that. “It’s not really a pincer movement, and dividing our forces is a weakness.”

“No choice,” said Clay. “Someone’s got to kill the compound’s power so we can get through that fence. Too many guards to just rush the main gates. We’ll distract the mercs once we’re in. That’ll give Nate’s team time to batten down and wait out the worst of it until we can get there and relieve them.”

“You hope,” Aisha said, frowning. She stepped into his room and pushed the door shut, then latched the safety chain.

Clay raised an eyebrow. “What – worried you can’t get over that fence? Parker’s pretty–”

Aisha strode over and poked him in the chest. “I do _not_ need help from a light-fingered petty criminal. I can manage that fence perfectly–”

Clay grabbed her wrists. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a badass, we know. But we’re working with the Leverage crew on this one, so suck it up.” He grinned. “Anyway, I don’t think you came here just to argue strategy, right?”

He pinned her wrists at the small of her back and kissed her. Aisha kissed back for a second, then bit his lip. She had teeth like a goddamn vampire. “Ow, fuck!” Clay licked his injured lower lip, tasting blood.

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m the one should be biting you, bitch, after that horseshit about not telling us Fadhil was your goddamn _father."_

“Who you planned to _kill_ ,” she hissed, pushing him hard so he fell back on the bed. She stood over him, fists clenched.

Clay lay back on his elbows, leaving himself open. “He was a bad man, Aisha. All those kids…”

“He was my _father_ ,” she spat. Then she was on him, and for a while he couldn’t tell if they were fighting or fucking, what with the clawing and spitting and trying to knee him in the motherfucking balls. He realized she was shaking under him and for a weird half-second he thought she was laughing, until he felt wetness on her face. “He was my father,” she said again, pain in her voice.

“I know, I know. Hey, c’mon,” Clay whispered as she went limp under him. He kissed her throat and stroked her hair, murmuring soothing nonsense. After a while Aisha began kissing him back, fierce and hungry. He pulled up her tank top and unhooked her bra, getting his mouth on her breasts. Her nipples were pulled up tight and hard from the room’s air-conditioning blowing on wet skin. Fucking modern hotels – Clay’d take a hot sweaty fuck in a cheap Mexican no-star any day.

Aisha shivered beneath him, and Clay coaxed her in under the covers, helping her wriggle out of her clothes. He switched off the lights, stripped rapidly and joined her, his hands running down her ribs, loving the taut feel of her muscled back and thighs, the tight globes of her ass.

“Started without me, huh?”

Clay looked up, squinting against the rectangle of light from the connecting doorway where Roque leaned, arms crossed.

“Well, if you’re too fucking slow–” Clay drawled.

Roque grunted. “Some of us like to take a shower first so we don’t stink like a goddamn monkey,” he said, pulling off his bathrobe.

“Get over here,” Aisha said, and he slid into the bed behind her.

“You’re not planning on pulling any crap with goddamn knives, are you?” Clay asked doubtfully. “After that shit in the limo?”

“Nah,” said Roque, kissing Aisha's shoulder.

"Wasn't asking _you_ ," Clay muttered.

Aisha snorted, then sighed as Roque nuzzled behind her ear and down her neck, making her arch back and press her hips forward, her belly brushing Clay’s erect cock. Clay stifled a groan. Roque lifted his mouth from Aisha's skin. “Figure there were faults on both sides, right?” He gave Clay a hard look, and Clay swallowed. If Aisha ever found out…

“Right,” he said, voice hoarse with that mix of lust and fear that was such a fucking turn-on, and then she had her leg up and resting on his hip, her hands on his dick, guiding him as Roque reached over and splayed a hand on his ass, pulling him in. Roque was stroking her with one hand and Clay felt the brush of his fingers as he slid home, sweet and hot and fucking perfect with one of Roque’s hands cupping his balls.

Roque was squeezing Clay’s ass, then his hand slid between Clay’s ass cheeks and pushed in with a slick finger, the sneaky bastard. Clay almost lost it as he jerked forward into Aisha and back onto Roque’s finger. “Fuck, fuck,” he gasped and they moved together, all three, Roque pressed up hard behind Aisha, biting her shoulder.

Clay reached around and grabbed Roque’s ass, gripping him so they were locked tightly together. Roque’s cock would be riding the small of Aisha's back as their movements got wilder, but Clay didn’t want him to have too much friction, didn't want him to come yet, not yet. After this, Roque would…and Christ, it wouldn’t take long with Aisha this close, making little choked-off cries. "Come on, yeah," he groaned, and then she was pulsing around his dick, her nails clawing his back as she came.

Roque breached him with two fingers now, pushing them in and oh Christ, right _there_. It was too much, and Clay was coming hard himself, clutching them both and shuddering as orgasm ripped through him. He lay there panting, face mashed into Aisha’s sweat-slippery tits, and all he could think of as Roque kept on finger-fucking him was that any time now, Roque was going to haul him off her and take his turn with Clay’s ass while Aisha watched them lazily and stroked herself. Roque was going to lift up his hips and just push right in and fuck Clay until he was used up and blown away, limp and sobbing and sweet goddamn Jesus, he couldn’t get it up again with a fucking block and tackle, but just thinking about what was coming made his ass clench helplessly around Roque’s fingers.

“My turn,” Roque growled, and he manhandled Clay across and pushed him face-down into the sheets. Clay moaned and spread his legs; he could hardly fucking wait.

+0+0+0+0+

“We’ll base ourselves in the office,” Sophie snapped. Nate admired the fit of her tailored suit jacket and pants. He did wonder, though, if having all of them wear Ray-Bans had been going just a shade too far. They did match the smart black suits with white shirts and plain black ties they were all wearing, but it might have been a mistake to give Hardison his head in the wardrobe department. “Agent N?” Sophie said sharply. “Agent H? Follow me.”

“Yes, Agent S,” said Hardison, straight-faced, hefting his briefcase. Nate nodded curtly and changed posture subtly so the shoulder holster outline was more visible under his suit jacket.

“You’re not allowed to _be_ here,” the Goliath lackey said nervously. “Not without authorization.”

“Listen, kid,” said Nate, looming menacingly. “Here’s the thing. We _are_ the authority. Want to see our IDs again? You’ve only checked the damn things twice. Now get out of the goddamn way so we can get this audit started. Believe me, your bosses won’t want the Agency’s auditors pissed before the process even gets underway.”

The lackey took a step back. “I, I’ll just–” He scuttled off, pulling a radio from his pocket as he vanished out the front door.

Nate closed the outer screen door after him and pulled the steel security door to. He locked the deadbolt then used a lock-kill key Parker had provided to disable it permanently, and shot the other two security bolts home. He cased the office block quickly: one main clerical room backed by a kitchenette area, where Sophie and Hardison were getting set up, and a smaller, windowless storage room for files. Further down the hallway were a couple of washrooms, marked with the usual male and female symbols, also windowless. Good. They’d kicked a couple of clerical staff out and told them to take paid leave the rest of the day. The women had taken one look at them, grabbed their bags and skedaddled.

Satisfied from his recon that they were alone in the building, Nate rejoined the others. Hardison was already at the main computer station, briefcase open and his laptop unpacked on the desk and jacked in, downloading busily.

Sophie had closed the vertical blinds on the small single window and was on tiptoe, peering out between them. She turned as he entered. “All battened down?”

“As much as it can be. That front door’ll hold for a while against moderate firepower, and at least the walls here are cinder block, not plywood. This is the only window, so there’s just this and the door as vulnerable access points we’ll need to cover.” He grinned. “Until we blow a fucking huge hole in the washroom wall, that is.” He pointed. “The ladies is that way.”

Sophie checked her watch. “We’re a minute behind schedule due to those idiots at the front gate delaying us, but it’s not too bad. Four minutes until we blow the C4.” She looked at Hardison. “Will that be enough time, Hardison?”

“Yeah.” Hardison’s Ray-Bans were pushed up to the top of his head – it was too dark to wear them inside. Nate and Sophie had stashed theirs in their suit pockets. “I’m running a search program for relevant files. I’ll have everything useful before then and I can check through it properly on the laptop after the power’s out.”

Sophie nodded and peered back out the window. “There’s a metal security grill on the window that’ll keep out grenades, but they’ll be able to shoot the glass out.”

Nate nodded. “We’ll stay well away from it. Wonder why security’s so tight here?”

“Are you kidding?” Hardison rocked back in his chair. “This is L.A., and I bet they manage payroll from this office. Plus, it’s Max’s outfit and he’s fucking paranoid, and they may _use_ a private militia, but I bet they don’t _trust_ them.”

Sophie checked her watch again. “Two minutes.”

“Right,” Nate said. He took the Heckler & Koch MP5K from a hidden compartment in Hardison’s briefcase and assembled the stock. Sophie took a Beretta and slipped it into her suit pocket. Nate already had a handgun in his shoulder holster. “Sure you won’t take one?” Nate looked at Hardison and indicated the remaining Beretta in the briefcase.

Hardison held up his hands. “You know I’d just shoot myself in the foot, man. I'll hide under the desk with my laptop if shit gets heavy.”

“Okay,” Sophie said. “Time to set the C4.”

“Look, that I _can_ do,” Hardison said. “We only thought Sophie might have to make with the ‘powdering my nose’ number when we weren’t sure if this building’d be crawling with Goliath guards.” Sophie handed him the package and he pocketed it. He took off out the door, then his head reappeared. “Hey – when I say it’s time, disconnect the cable from my laptop.”

Sophie nodded. “Yes, will do. Hurry.” He vanished.

“Fire in the hole!” echoed down the hallway, and Sophie unplugged the laptop from the Goliath system. A few seconds later a loud **_CRUMP_** sounded, the building vibrated, and all the lights went out. Nate peered over: the desktop computers were dead.

Outside, voices yelled and Nate heard scratching noises as someone tried to use a key in the lock, with no success. He grinned: the lock-kill key was a Parker trick. It worked better than superglue which just sank to the bottom of the mechanism and didn’t dry out in time.

Somewhere nearby, an alarm started shrilling and there were more angry shouts. Nate pressed Clay’s speed-dial number but nothing happened. He tried again, but all he got was static. Hardison skidded in through the door, his suit dusty, and Nate pointed at the offending item. “Phone’s dead or something,” he said. Sophie and Hardison tried theirs.

“Mine’s not working either,” Sophie said.

“Was it the blast in the fuse room?” Nate asked.

“Nah, a piddly little bang like that shouldn't mess up our phones,” Hardison muttered, looking worried. He dismantled his phone and checked it rapidly, frowning. “Fucked if I know, but maybe Max’s got some kind of emergency comms-blocking shit here that kicks in if there’s an attack.”

“Well, we know he’s got access to other types of tech,” Sophie said.

“Bet their goddamn radios still work,” Nate said grimly.

“Yeah, count on it,” Hardison said. “We’ll just have to go by the schedule.”

“What took you so long, anyway?” Nate asked.

Hardison slapped at his filthy suit ineffectually, sending up clouds of plaster dust. “Wanted to check how much of a mess we’d made with the C4. Pretty big hole. I figured if I could get through, so could they, so I climbed down into the fuse room and jammed the door shut with some of the debris. Might slow them down some, anyway.”

A thudding crash sounded as someone outside started trying to break down the front door.

“Showtime,” said Nate.

+0+0+0+0+

Jake squinted up at the electrified Goliath fence. They hadn’t finessed the freight company’s rusted padlocks – Roque just shot them off with a silenced pistol and he and Spencer hauled the gates open. The Hummer was only just going to fit through – probably get scraped up a little, but that was the least of their worries. Past the opening, he could see the other gate in the Goliath fence, also electrified, and chained off with new, shiny padlocks. Beyond that were stacked ranks of containers, and, off to the left, a blank, aluminum-sided warehouse. He looked back through the Hummer’s windshield at Pooch, hands easy on the steering wheel. Pooch nodded. The big black vehicle should just be able to fit in between the warehouse and the stacks – they’d measured it on Jake’s satellite feed printouts.

Clay and Spencer joined him, and Clay leaned in, speaking quietly as there was a guard patrol route just the other side of the stacked containers. “It’s not time for them to have blown the fuse room yet but we might not hear it anyway, not from this far.” Clay rubbed his chin. “How do we check if the fence is still live?”

“Allow me to demonstrate,” Jake said. He pulled a cheap compass from his pocket and showed them it was pointing north. They walked cautiously toward the Goliath fence and suddenly the needle flickered and went crazy, trying to align itself with the fence’s magnetic field. “Yeah,” Jake said. “It’s juiced up.”

Clay smirked. “Outstanding. The compass trick, not the killer voltage.”

“Fun with physics,” Jake said, grinning.

“Fence like this,” Spencer said softly, “even high-voltage, it’s not meant to kill. They just want to make it real hard to climb and to tell if anyone’s cutting the mesh – sets off alarms in the control room.”

“Yeah,” Clay said, “in theory. But this is Max. He’ll have cranked it way up above the manufacturer’s specs, bet your life.”

“No thanks,” said Jake.

“Neat trick,” Parker said, materializing at his elbow. Jake reluctantly handed over the compass, frowning at her. She grinned and pocketed it. “So once it’s off, how long’ve we got before they get the power back on?”

“Long as we like,” Jake said, leading them back toward the Hummer, away from the live wires. “Not like it’s a mains power outage where they can switch to a back-up generator. We’re trashing the main fuse room – there’s no coming back from that without a shitload of repair work.”

Cougar peered up at the fence. “It's high – at least eight meters.”

“Easy to climb, though,” Aisha said scornfully. “Westerners put too much faith in technology. One minor problem with the power supply and they are vulnerable.”

“That’s our crew in harm’s way to set up your ‘minor problem’,” said Spencer, narrow-eyed.

“And we appreciate it,” Clay said smoothly. “Okay, kids, rock and roll in three minutes, let’s all take our places.”

“I’ve been ready for _hours_ ,” Parker said, bouncing on her toes.

Aisha adjusted the harness Parker had loaned her. “I am also ready.” She showed her teeth, hand falling to her belt-knife. “And, insha'Allah, Max will be in there.”

They piled back into the Hummer, except for Parker and Aisha, who stood off to each side in the no man’s land between fences. Parker held out the compass toward the Goliath fence, her other hand raised. A minute went by, then she slashed her hand down.

The Hummer eased forward close to the fence and Parker and Aisha leapt up onto the hood, then flung themselves at the fence and clambered up. No one got electrocuted and Jake huffed out a relieved breath. At the top, Parker snapped her harness line to a stanchion and rappelled neatly down to the ground, Scowling, Aisha followed, more clumsily.

They freed themselves from the lines, Parker immediately moving to the locks on the Goliath gate, picks at the ready. Aisha, knife in hand, melted into a narrow crack between stacked containers. She was back, wiping blood off the blade, just as Parker freed the last padlock and Roque pushed the gates open, Pooch backing the Hummer up to give him some room.

“Only one,” Aisha said. “Easily done, with them all distracted.” She looked toward the distant sound of firearms and shouting where Nate, Sophie and Hardison must be pinned down by the guards.

Clay was frowning at his phone. “Jensen, why’s this fucked? And why hasn’t Nate called us?”

“Huh?” Jake said, trying his own, then cursing and breaking it down. It was fine – nothing broken. He slapped it rapidly back together but there was only static. Weird. He lifted his head. “Who’s got a phone that works?” No one had. “Shit,” Jake said. “This is freaky. There’s no way them taking out the fuse room would fuck up our phones.”

“Bet it’s Max doing something,” Roque growled.

“Yeah, but what?” Jake scratched his head. “Never heard of anything that could do _this_ …well, except for an EMP, and you wouldn’t let me–”

“The stupid technology does not matter, and we should go,” Aisha hissed. “All we have now is the schedule. We must stick to it.”

Jake made a face. The schedule was going to be royally fucked as soon as they started clashing with Wade’s private army.

“We’ll have to manage without comms,” said Clay. He shrugged. “Not great, but Aisha’s right – time’s wasting. Let’s go.”

Parker, Roque and Aisha swung up into the Hummer, and Pooch eased it through into the Goliath compound, hard left then a tight right turn, and on through the narrow passage between containers and the warehouse, out into a broader clearway on the tarmac.

Jake had the compound’s site plan laid out on a spare seat, Cougar riding shotgun on his left. His laptop email pinged and he checked the directions Hardison had sent, data downloaded from the Goliath computer. “Okay, the phones are trashed but Hardison’s still managed to email me. I knew we were right to hack into the L. A. Port authority wireless netw–”

“Jensen,” snapped Clay. “Less technocrap, more action.”

“Okay, okay, sorry. Sooo, the best bet is…” he peered at the plan, then tapped it sharply. “Here. Pooch, make a right.”

As Pooch swung around, Jake turned back to where Spencer, Roque and Aisha sat in back. “It’s about mid-way, en route to the offices. Quicker if you ride with us that far.”

"Okay," Spencer said. He looked up at Parker, who was peering around from the front seat. “Hardison,” he said. She nodded.

Around the next stack of containers, they hit a patrol. Literally – Pooch ran two of them over. The guards’ automatic rifle-fire bounced off the armored Hummer, and he screeched to a stop so Roque, Jake, and Spencer could slide out the off-side and use the Hummer as a shield. Once they’d distracted the guards with covering fire, Clay and Cougar picked off the uninjured ones by cracking the windows just enough to take a gun barrel. Aisha chased down a runaway between the container stacks and it was all over in a few minutes. She nodded curtly and sheathed her knife then they all clambered back into the Hummer again and Pooch accelerated away.

“Bet at least one of them sent a warning to HQ about us,” Pooch said, swerving around the corner of a rust-colored building. “Reckon whatever’s messing with our phones, their radios’ll still be working.”

“Good,” said Spencer. “We want them on _our_ tail, not mobbing the others.”

“Yeah, ideally we want their forces split,” Clay agreed. “No sign of Wade yet.”

“Treat in store,” said Jake. “Next left, Pooch, then it’s the…third warehouse along on the right.”

They had to take out another patrol first, though, and these guys had armor-piercing rounds which shattered the windshield although no one got hit. Pooch was cursing, driving evasively while the rest of them took pot-shots out the windows. It took five minutes to deal with the patrol and leave the wounded trussed up in a gap between containers.

Roque and Aisha grabbed extra ammo and took off with Spencer, vanishing silently into a narrow passageway between the stacks, headed for the distant commotion.

The rest of them piled out of the Hummer and stared at the designated warehouse. Blank-faced aluminum siding, just like all the others. It was painted a dull green.

“We sure it’s this one?” asked Clay, tilting his head back. “Looks like all the rest.”

“Not at all sure, no,” said Jake. “But there are some encrypted files Hardison was part-way through cracking. From those, it’s the best guess.” He stared up as well. “Not like Max’d have put a sign on it with CASH AND WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION IN HERE, right?”

“That’d be handy,” said Clay, “but, no.” He moved to the ordinary-looking metal door. “Think it’s guarded inside?”

“Fucked if I know,” said Jake.

“You’re a big help,” Clay said. He turned. “Parker, can you get us in?” She smirked.

“Hey, wait!” Jake said, grabbing Clay’s arm. “If I was Max, and I wasn’t about to risk locking dumbass guards in with all that cash, what would I do?”

“Booby-trap,” said Cougar, at his shoulder.

Jake made a pistol out of his hand and pointed it at Cougar. “Precisely. Give the man a stuffed toy.”

“Yeah?” Pooch said, handing out H&Ks and ammo clips from the back of the Hummer. “What, like a bomb in the lock or something?”

Jake rocked his hand. “Not _in_ the lock, but yeah, a trigger mechanism from the lock, or from when the door opens.”

“You think?” Clay said, frowning. “Guess it’s Plan B, then.” He turned. “Parker?”

“Ah, Clay?” Pooch said, peering upwards. “I think she already…”

Far above, Parker waved from the warehouse’s roof, a small dark figure against the pale blue-white sky, reeling in her climbing line and unhooking the grapple. She vanished from sight.

“Plan B it is,” said Clay.

+0+0+0+0+

“It’s not good, but it’s not too desperate,” Nate said, keeping his voice down. He’d been out back to see for himself how much of a mess the C4 had made of the washroom wall. He nodded at Hardison. “Like you said, the hole’s big enough for us to get through, but it’s high enough up the wall to make crawling through a little difficult, especially as the fuse room floor’s lower than this one.”

Sophie frowned, and Hardison looked nervously toward the front door, where one of the guards had shot the deadlock out a while back, and the others were still trying to smash the door in with brute force. So far the other two bolts were holding, but it was only a matter of time.

Automatic rifle fire strafed through the window, tearing chunks out of the ceiling and back wall. Sophie and Hardison hunched further under the desk, and Nate crouched in its lee until plaster and glass stopped flying. The room was full of dust and he coughed, shaking it out of his hair. “Okay, maybe it _is_ desperate. In here, I mean.” He waved a hand, encompassing the trashed office and thudding assault on the front door, where twelve screws holding the bolts in place were slowly working loose, millimeter by millimeter.

“You think they’ll come in through the washroom hole as well, even though I blocked that door?” Hardison asked. Sophie bit her lip.

“Maybe,” Nate said. “If we wait too much longer, for sure. But that’s not what I meant. I think we should get _out_ that way before they realize there’s a huge goddamn hole there. We can take our chances in among the container stacks until the cavalry arrives.”

They both stared at him bleakly and he shrugged. As plans went, it sucked, but what choice did they have?

Hardison looked up at the window and swore. The dust was clearing, and Nate could see that the grill was partly broken, a chunk about the size of a man’s head blown away. Too small for the guards to get through, but all it’d take was a tear gas grenade, or worse.

“Shit,” said Nate. “I guess that decides it.”

“Wait, wait,” said Hardison. “Let me see if I can make us a diversion. Cover our tracks, right?” He grabbed Nate’s arm. “Get in here with Sophie – I’ll only be a second.”

He eeled out and scrambled through the door toward the washrooms. Nate crawled in beside Sophie. More gunfire strafed across the ceiling and he felt her shaking against him and put his arms around her. “C’mon, Sophie, it’ll be okay. We’ve made it through tougher scrapes than this, right?” She pressed her face into his dusty black suit and he lifted her chin and kissed her, tasting plaster dust. He pulled her against him. Where the hell was Hardison?

“Got some!” Hardison stage-whispered, knee-walking across to them. “I checked the kitchenette before and noticed this, so I was hoping…” He waved a roll of aluminum foil, presumably there to wrap left-over lunches. In his other hand he brandished a plastic bottle of toilet cleaner. He began ripping off small chunks of foil and rolling them into loose balls. Reaching up, he grabbed someone’s filing tray off the desk and dumped the papers then piled aluminum foil balls in the tray. “C’mon,” he said, “help me with these. We need a good handful.” Nate and Sophie dazedly joined in.

“Hardison, what are we making?” asked Sophie after a moment.

“Chemical bomb,” Hardison said. “Struck me that if they could put something nasty through that hole in the window grill, we can do the same to them. Won’t do any real harm unless someone’s right underneath, but it makes a big bang. Might confuse them, and I figure we could use any advantage.”

He tilted the filing tray, narrowing his eyes at the pile of foil balls. “Okay, I think that’ll do. There’s not much cleaner left in the bottle – should be the right proportions.” Reaching up, he wrenched the power cable out of the Goliath computer. It was plugged into the wall below the window and he crawled over and unplugged it, grabbing some scissors off a desk and snipping the plug off then knotting the cable through an undamaged part of the window grill.

“Keep your goddamn head down,” Nate hissed.

“Yeah, yeah,” whispered Hardison, crawling back like a big dusty overdressed spider to get the toilet cleaner and tray of aluminum balls. His tie was ruined.

Nate had a brief moment of surreality, then shook himself out of it. “Stay right here but get the laptop in the briefcase, and be ready to move fast, okay?” Sophie nodded. He crawled over to Hardison. “Tell me the plan,” he whispered.

Hardison had tied the other end of the cable to the bottle’s molded handle and was fashioning a crude funnel out of a piece of copier paper. He looked up. “Huh? Oh, I tip these in and quick smart dangle this sucker out the hole then fuck off _fast_ and hope it goes boom.”

Nate nodded. “Okay. You’ll need suppressing fire. They strafed the window again while you were scavenging. Probably blow your science project away the moment you stick it in the hole, and I don’t fancy being covered in that shit.”

Hardison frowned and peered up at the window. “But we can’t–”

“Won’t matter if the trajectory’s way off, it’ll freak them out anyway. Tell me when and I’ll give it a couple of rounds with this, from below the window sill.” He patted the H&K.

Hardison nodded. “Okay.” He unscrewed the plastic bottle cap and positioned the paper funnel to his satisfaction, then picked up the filing tray. “Now.”

Nate kneeled up and fired two good bursts. There were shouts and scrambling noises outside. He looked down. Hardison had the foil balls in the bottle and was rapidly screwing on the cap. Nate gave the bastards one more burst then crawled back out of the way.

Hardison hefted the bottle and pushed it out the window. It fell about a foot and dangled, but they were already scrambling away, collecting the briefcase and Sophie and out the door in a crouch, starting down the hallway. The explosion was pretty dramatic, and the banging at the front door stopped for a while. There were angry shouts and gunfire outside, but by then, they were in the bathroom.

“Hardison, you first. Easier with your long legs and you can help Sophie. I’ll cover.” Nate edged back to the washroom door, gun at the ready.

“No,” said Sophie. “I’ll go first, so I can shoot any bastard who turns up while the rest of you climb through.” She glared Nate down, and he waved acquiescence.

Just as Hardison climbed through, Nate heard one of the front door bolts give way. He ran for the jagged gap and scrambled into it, ripping the knee of his pants on a nail and scratching his leg. Hardison steadied him while Sophie stood guard, Beretta aimed up at the hole.

They ran for the door, crunching cement chunks underfoot. Hardison began freeing the door from the debris he’d used to jam it and Nate crouched by the doorframe, gun ready. Eventually, they looked at each other, eyes wide. This was the riskiest part – well, apart from running across the tarmac outside hoping not to be shot by an army of hired killers. Nate nodded and Hardison pulled the door open. Swallowing hard, Nate peered out. No one shot his head off, so that was a plus. A dark hallway, no guards in sight. To the left, an emergency exit. He tipped his head to show the others which way, and slid out into the hallway.

Crouched in the shadows under the smeared glass window of the exit door, they stared at each other in the gloom. Moderately high chance of being gunned down out there, but a higher one of being caught like trapped rats in here. Nate cursed Franklin fucking Clay – what in hell had they been thinking, agreeing to this shit? They were goddamn grifters, not a black ops team. Hardison couldn’t even use a gun.

Nate pulled Sophie to him and kissed her once more. He drew back. "Hardison, Sophie, I'm sorry. This wasn't what you–"

“It’s okay,” Sophie said. “Nate, whatever happens out there, it’s okay.”

“Yeah, man,” Hardison said, “it’s been real. Kind of a little _too_ real, y’know, but you get that with the big jobs.” He forced a wry smile, the whites of his eyes gleaming.

"It's been a pleasure working with you both," Nate said. He reached for the door release, then turned back to Hardison. "Good bomb.” Hardison's grin widened. Nate leaned hard on the emergency door lever and they burst out into blinding daylight.

+0+0+0+0+

Aisha killed three guards on the way to the office block.

“Look, we don’t _have_ to kill them,” Eliot said, one time when they were pressed against a container waiting for a patrol truck to pass by before crossing four meters of open tarmac to the next stack.

“It is no trouble,” Aisha said. “It won’t slow us down.”

“Yeah, that’s not quite what I–” Eliot began, but she was off, running full tilt into the opposite crevice between stacks, then covering them, beckoning impatiently.

Once they were across she headed off, taking point, Roque next and Eliot on their six. “She always like this?” he asked Roque, sotto voce.

“Yeah,” said Roque. “What’s with you and the no guns thing?”

“I’m kind of over killing. Prefer disabling with hand to hand if I can,” Eliot whispered, as they hunkered down in the shadows again to let more guards go by.

“Like knifework, myself,” Roque said thoughtfully.

“Uh-huh,” Eliot said, and nodded at Aisha. “Good to have things in common, I guess.”

Roque glared at him. “Fuck you mean by that?”

Eliot held up his hands. “Nothing, man. Not a goddamn thing.” Jesus. Bosnian minefields were easier to negotiate.

They reached another tarmac roadway close to the gates. They’d worked out before the op that it ran past the back entrance to the office block so their plan was to get in that way and bring the others out.

Aisha looked around the rusting edge of the last container, then pulled sharply back. “Not good.”

Eliot cursed softly and pushed past her to peer out. The back door to the offices was standing open and Nate, Sophie and Hardison had been pushed down to their knees, disarmed, hands cuffed behind their backs. They were surrounded by a knot of guards. Eliot willed Hardison not to be a smartass, but one of the guards suddenly clouted him over the head. _Damn it, Hardison, shut the fuck up._

One of the patrol trucks pulled up, and the three captives were loaded into it, several guards piling in as well before it drove off. “Where’re they taking them?” Roque said in his ear.

“Don't know,” said Eliot. “Maybe they've got a lockup?”

“Truck’s going more or less in the direction Clay’s team are at,” Roque said. “Guess we should head back there.”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Eliot. He turned. “Aisha, what d’you–”

She’d vanished. Just him and Roque, crouched down in the shadows. Roque swore bitterly.

Eliot jogged to the other end of the container and checked the next passageway between stacks. No Aisha. Great – this was turning into a real goddamn clusterfuck. He and Roque retraced their route in the direction of Clay’s team, checking all the passages for Aisha. No sign of her.

Before crossing the next open tarmac area, he turned back to Roque. “She do this often? Just fuck off in the middle of a job?”

Roque stared back at him, face filled with hatred. Eliot frowned – the guy was as touchy as a goddamn…. Then he felt a cold gun muzzle pressed hard to the nape of his neck, and realized Roque wasn’t looking _at_ him, but past him.

“Wade,” Roque snarled, lips pulled back from his teeth.

“Captain Roque,” said the guy behind Eliot. “Don’t move, my guy's got the other exit covered.”

Roque looked a question. Eliot grimaced, seeing a dark shape with a rifle silhouetted against the far end of the gap. “Yeah, man. Behind you.”

“And Eliot Spencer as well,” said Wade Travis. “What a treat.”

+0+0+0+0+

“Think she got in?” Jake whispered. It seemed like Parker’d been up on the roof way too long, and he hated hanging around out here. No real reason to keep his voice down – no patrols had turned up since they dealt with the last one, but they were sitting ducks and it just felt…safer.

Cougar shrugged, then grabbed his arm, pointing. Parker was on the ground, beckoning impatiently from the corner of the building.

“At fucking last,” muttered Clay. She ducked back out of sight and they jogged after her, into another narrow walkway between the green warehouse and a building next door. Ten meters along there was a side door, ajar. They slipped in and Pooch pulled it closed.

Jake blinked around. Grayish gloom from skylights. He squinted up: one was propped open, a neat circular hole barely visible against the sky.

“Was it booby-trapped?” Pooch asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Parker said. “Big wad of C4. I didn’t touch it."

“Promising,” said Clay, looking around. “Jensen, can you disarm it?”

“Sure,” Jake said. “Cougs?” Cougar nodded and they went to check out the bomb, footsteps echoing in the mostly empty space.

Jake lowered his voice. “I’m not seeing $400 mill of cash just lying around. I mean, that’s a lot of spondulicks.”

Cougar nodded back over his shoulder to the others. “ 's a container back there. Might have something.”

Jake shook his head. “One container? No way 400 mill’d fit in there.” Cougar made one of those Latin gestures Jake had decided meant ‘maybe, maybe not’, or possibly ‘fuck your mother’. He’d never liked to ask.

“No, really, man,” Jake insisted. “In 100 dollar bills, which this being dirty money, that’s the most likely, that’s, like, 4000 kilograms.” Cougar raised an eyebrow and Jake nodded. “Right. Serious moolah.”

Cougar shook his head. “How would you know such a thing?”

Jake smirked. “I like thinking about stuff.”

“I noticed,” Cougar said, his voice dry. He waved at the booby-trapped door. “Think on this.”

Jake got down to business. Behind him, Parker made happy noises over the high-tech lock on the container doors.

By the time they rejoined the others, Pooch and Clay were swinging the doors open. Someone had oiled the hinges, but they still made rasping metallic shrieks.

Parker peered into the dark recess. “Where’s the money?”

“Not here,” said Clay. “But I think we found the snukes.”

“Uh-oh, der blinkenlights,” Jake said. He eyed the four waist-high, smoothly-polished metal ovoids lined up in the container. The nearest had a panel of red and green lights and a red glow deep inside, but the others seemed inactive.

Clay turned slightly. “Jensen. Any luck with the door?”

“Yeah, all sorted. He patted his pocket. “I borrowed the C4.”

“Good work.” Clay waved at the ovoids. “I’m thinking: the one that’s lit up – that might not be a good thing?”

Jake stepped up into the container. There was a large shape under a plastic tarp in the darkness behind the last snuke. Not a stack of cash – too angular. He focussed back on the nearest bomb. He had no fucking idea what the lights meant – there were no labels visible through the clear outer casing, no diagrams or instructions. He jumped back down. “Could be worse. There’s no countdown flashing.”

“Riiight,” Clay said. “Peachy.”

“Reckon it’s armed, though,” Jake said. His mouth was dry.

“And we’re back to that not being a good thing,” said Clay. “Well, fuck.” He waved at the container. “Think you can…?”

“Not a chance,” said Jake. “Way out of my league.”

“Hardison?” Clay asked, not very hopefully.

Jake snorted. “Yeah, ’cause he disarms futuristic WMDs every other damn day.” Clay sighed.

“Spencer’ll fix it,” Parker said. “He’s good with bombs.”

“Yeah?” said Clay. “Well, so's Roque, but sadly, they're a little busy right now.”

Parker bit her lip and frowned.

“Hey,” Jake said, unsure whether he should pat her shoulder. “They’ll be okay.”

“Oh, I know _that_ ,” Parker said. “But we need to find the money.” She paused, staring thoughtfully at the snukes. “You’re sure we can’t sell these? They’re very shiny.”

“No, Jesus,” said Clay. “We’re not taking over Max’s arms trade. The authorities can deal with this shit once we’re clear.”

They relocked the container, made sure the now defused front door was secure, and wedged the microfiber cloth Jake used to polish his glasses in the side door latch in case they needed to get in again. Then everyone piled back into the Hummer. Pooch wanted to check out something he’d glimpsed down one of the passageways, past the last row of containers where there was a wide, clear stretch of tarmac.

Turned out to be a corporate jet, the downside being two trucks of guards milling about. Jake was sure Pooch could’ve got them out under most circumstances, but the guards had three armor-piercing rifles trained on them in seconds, and the Hummer’s windshield was gone.

“Can’t win ’em all, man,” Jake muttered as they were disarmed and forced to kneel, plastic cuffs tight around their wrists.

“Can’t win fuckin’ _any_ of ’em, lately,” Pooch retorted.

A merc backhanded him with casual brutality then turned and cracked Jake across the face with a rifle stock. Jake collapsed, spitting blood. As he struggled to right himself, he caught a blurred glimpse through his one good eye of Cougar struggling to get to him. One of the guards kicked him hard in the gut.

The last thing Jake saw before a boot sent him flying was a sneering, scar-faced merc training his gun on them. He was wearing Cougar’s hat.

+0+0+0+0+

Wade Travis backed out of the gap between container stacks, Eliot and Roque following, hands on their heads. The merc behind Roque jabbed him in the back with a gun barrel, and Roque snarled. Travis forced Eliot to turn, keeping behind him and well away from Roque, digging the gun in painfully. Eliot kept his head still but his eyes darted around. A security SUV with the Goliath logo was parked nearby, the driver leaning on it, rifle held casually in his arms. Good: they were complacent.

He waited until the man behind Roque cleared the passageway before making his move, hoping Roque could deal with him. Travis wasn’t expecting an unarmed man with his hands on his head and a gun pressed to his spine to explode into action. Aisha was right; these guys relied too much on tech.

In seconds, Eliot had broken Travis’s gun-arm and swung him as a shield into the driver, who’d stopped slouching but couldn’t get his rifle up fast enough to avoid being smashed into the SUV. A gunshot rang out behind, but Eliot ignored it. He slammed Travis's and the driver’s heads together then kicked out their legs, knocking the guns away as they fell in a tangled heap. He cuffed them both, leaving Travis lying dazed, face down.

Roque sauntered over, using the other guard’s hat to wipe blood off his knife. Eliot figured he knew what Roque was planning. It wasn’t his thing, but by all accounts Wade Travis had it coming. “Just Travis,” he said. “Not the other guy.”

Roque nodded, then pulled Travis’s head up by the hair. “Wade,” he said. “This is for that time in Colombia, with the leeches,” and he cut Travis's throat, then kicked the body before letting out a shuddering breath. He wiped his knife on Wade’s shirt and stood, frowning at Eliot. “Saved my goddamn life again, Spencer.” Eliot shrugged. “Roque thrust his hand out. “My turn next.”

Eliot nodded and they shook. “Looking forward to it.”

They paused outside the warehouse Jensen had said was the target. Spencer pressed his ear to the aluminum siding. “Feels empty,” he said. “They must’ve taken off somewhere.”

Roque grunted agreement. “Don’t like this door,” he said. “Too obvious.”

“C’mon,” Spencer said, heading around the side, down a gap between buildings. Better cover, anyway. They found a side door, wedged open with a scrap of cloth. “Jensen’s,” Roque said, peering at it. Cleans his glasses with it.” He pocketed the cloth.

The disarmed booby-trap confirmed their suspicions about the main door, even if someone had already dealt with it. The C4 was gone. Pity. Eliot craned up at the skylight.

“Your team?” Roque asked, head back to follow his gaze.

“Yeah, Parker.” Roque nodded.

Neither of them could crack the fancy electronic lock on the shipping container set back in the shadows, so Roque shot it off with Travis’s gun. They hauled the doors open and stared at the row of freaky futuristic silver eggs.

“These the snuke things?” Roque asked.

“Looks like it.” Eliot hopped up to peer at the closest one. “Damn, I think it’s armed.”

Roque stepped up beside him. "Yeah, looks like it. I handle explosives in our crew, but these…You any good with this shit?”

“I’ve done a little bomb disposal. Nothing like this."

Roque moved past him, checking the other three. “Lights're all out on these ones.”

“Not dead, just sleeping,” Eliot said absently. "You got a knife?”

“Like you have to ask.”

“A small knife,” Eliot clarified, “not that pig-sticker.”

Roque passed him a narrow-bladed dagger from his boot. Eliot checked the edges of the transparent cover carefully, found a catch and eased it open. Nothing was labelled, but there was no reason to invent a whole new timer and detonator set-up, even if the bomb itself was out of a Syfy special. At least the central screen wasn’t showing a countdown, but Eliot wasn’t happy it showed digits at all. **00.05.00** it blinked. A stalled countdown – armed and ready. Probably Max had a remote somewhere and could restart the timer with the push of a button. Worse, maybe it was a dead man’s switch, with only Max’s thumb on a pressure trigger _stopping_ the countdown from continuing.

“I'll check what else is in here,” Roque called, moving further back into the darkness.

Eliot hummed vaguely, focused on mapping out the likely wiring behind the blinking LEDs. There were tiny beveled screws in the corners of the faceplate and he started unscrewing them with the knife tip, very carefully.

“Man, what a find!” crowed Roque from the rear of the container. “It’s a fucking Ducati!” There were scrabbling noises of plastic being ripped off, then a faint thud.

Eliot looked up, annoyed. “I’m defusing a goddamn city-killer bomb here. Quit horsing around.”

“Sorry,” Roque said. “Just…give me a minute to get it out, okay?”

Eliot shrugged and stood back as Roque wheeled the motorcycle past and bumped it over the rim of the container. He propped it on its stand and circled it, excited as a kid on Christmas morning. Eliot had to admit, it was a thing of beauty.

“It’s even gassed up, keys in the damn lock and everything,” Roque said, marveling.

“’s what Parker says.” Eliot grinned and they said it in unison: “It’s like they _want_ us to steal it.”

Roque threw a long leg over the seat. “C’mon, man, get that damn bomb defused so we can ride this baby out of here.”

Eliot rolled his eyes, and went back to easing off the faceplate. "Some things you can't rush."

Roque made a frustrated noise and parked the bike, dismounting. "Okay, I'm giving you a hand. We don't have all fucking day."

Eliot didn't answer, just passed him the faceplate. **00.05.00** , The countdown blinked up at them, in digits red as blood.

+0+0+0+0+

Jake came to with the taste of blood rusty in his mouth. Cougar lay a meter away, face bruised, eyes dark pits, staring at him. Jake tried a smile, then figured that hadn’t worked too well from the way his face hurt and Cougar’s brow creased worriedly.

Cougar looked younger without his hat; he always did. Despite how FUBAR things were, Jake couldn’t help remembering last night, Cougar arching over him in bed, hair falling around his face as he slid into Jake so sweet and hot. He’d looked down tenderly, mobile mouth curved in a smile—and god, but Jake loved that mouth—then he’d shut his eyes in pleasure, tipped his head back and started up with the Spanish dirty talk. Cougs might be quiet in public, but in bed, in his native tongue, he loved telling Jake exactly how he felt, what he wanted to do to Jake, and what he was _going_ to do. These days, Jake could almost come just from _hearing_ Spanish. Anything – phrase-book Spanish, the Mexican weather report, fucking tortilla recipes. Sometimes, if he was horny and Cougs was away, he turned on one of those on-line teach-yourself-Spanish programs and jerked off. Worked every time.

Jake snapped himself out of the pleasant reverie. Cougar was frowning at him; he must’ve drifted off again. Probably a concussion, goddamn it; his head sure hurt enough. Jake tried to look around, grimacing against the pain. He didn’t think he’d been out long, and a third truck had just pulled up. As he watched, squinting against the bright glare of the sky, Hardison, Nate and Sophie were unloaded, frog-marched over and forced down with rest of them. Well, shit.

Hardison, who had one eye swollen shut much like Jake, opened his mouth to say something to Clay, but Nate elbowed him hard in the ribs. Cougar shot Jake a warning look, clearly lumping Jake in with Hardison as idiots inclined to mouth off in front of the men with guns and get themselves stomped on. Which, okay, point. All the others were still on their knees, and Jake struggled up, Cougar righting himself a lot more gracefully. Sophie was on Jake’s other side. Jake made a sympathetic face and she shrugged, eyes darting around anxiously.

The boss merc, the big scar-faced dickhead wearing Cougar’s hat, spoke into a radio, then nodded. A silver Lexus came into view, emerging from one of the side-roads leading to the main gate. It came to a halt a few meters in front of them and Max got out, wearing a suit in some expensive shiny fabric, a silk tie and a big fucking smirk.

“Gentlemen – and ladies,” he said. “I was so hoping you’d take the bait. It’s high time I tidied up the loose ends from that bungled job in Bolivia. Although how you ever imagined you’d get the drop on me, Clay…” He shook his head, a pitying expression pasted on over the gloating grin.

“It’s not over yet,” Clay muttered.

Max tilted his head to one side, eyebrows raised. “No? I think you’ll find it is. What do you think you’re going to do, trussed up like that? Bite me in the kneecap?” Clay looked like he might just try it, and Max laughed and stepped back. “Wade got the rest of them yet?” he asked the head merc. The guy turned aside and spoke briefly into his radio, listened, tried another channel, tried again. He shrugged and turned back. “He was loading them up a minute ago. Should be here any time.”

Damn. Jake had thought Max might not realize Roque, Aisha and Spencer were missing –  but Wade hadn’t answered his radio, and Jake let himself hope, just a little.

There’d been too many guards – easily double the number they’d seen in the compound on the Goliath CCTV footage he and Hardison had hacked. Something big was going down today and they’d walked smack bang into it.

“The cash’s all loaded?” Max asked, involuntarily glancing at the jet. The scar-faced man nodded. Jake cut his eyes at Parker, and saw she’d noticed. She stared at the plane, narrow-eyed.

Max clapped his hands together. “Well, it’s been a blast, but y’know, places to go, people to see.” He giggled; it made Jake want to throw up. Max moved in and leaned over Clay, eyes gleaming. He took a small remote from his pocket and punched two buttons. “That should do it. Let me tell you what this is, Colonel,” He spoke softly, out of earshot of the mercs, his thumb covering the remote. “A pressure trigger. When I release this button, everything goes boom." He smiled like a shark. "Well, it does after the jet takes off. I'm not a suicidal fuck-up like you."

Max straightened, stepping back. "After this cautionary demonstration, no government's ever going to mess with me again.” He patted down his tie, smug in his victory. “Goodbye, Clay. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure, because it really, really hasn’t. This part, though, I’m going to enjoy.”

“Still can’t get Travis on the radio, sir,” said the boss merc.

“Well if he’s stupid enough to be late, he doesn’t get to come,” Max said petulantly. He spun on his heel and started for the jet, then stopped and turned back. “Oh. Wait ‘til I’m on board, then kill them all.” The scar-faced merc nodded; it made Jake’s stomach clench with wrongness, seeing Cougar’s hat on him. He shot a nervous glance to his left, hoping Cougar wasn’t going to try and rip the guy’s femoral artery out with his bare teeth, but other than the expected death-glare, Cougs looked pretty much in control.

“You know what that remote is, that he’s holding?” Clay said, glaring up at the merc. “A pressure trigger for one of those scary fucking bombs. Max’s going to blow it as soon as he’s in the air. Blow you up, this whole compound, the whole port, all of L.A. and half the western seaboard, if it sets off the other three.”

The merc sneered. “There’s no bombs here. Weapons, yeah, but nothing like a nuke. He said you’d come out with all sorts of horseshit but I’m gettin’ paid a fucking fortune so I could care less.”

“He’s lying,” Clay raised his voice in a hoarse shout. “Max, you fucker. Tell them about the snukes, the smart bombs. Tell them how you’ve set up a death-trap here to take them all out, all the evidence and loose ends.”

Max paused, halfway to the jet. He turned, shaking his head sorrowfully. “Pitiable, Colonel. Now you’re just raving. Really, show some self-restraint.” He nodded at the merc, who grinned savagely and kicked Clay in the jaw, knocking him back into Pooch. They sprawled on the tarmac, Clay out cold.

Which was a pity, really, as if he’d been kneeling upright like the rest of them he’d have seen Cougar stiffen, eyes widening, looking up to the right. Up to the top of a warehouse where Aisha stood braced, with a huge goddamn rocket launcher.

Jake had to give it to her – her aim was excellent. She took Max out without the fireball frying anyone except a couple of mercs guarding the perimeter. By then she was on her belly with an automatic rifle and Wade's militia were dropping like flies. Jake managed to scrabble a belt knife off one merc she’d shot nearby, and as soon as he'd freed himself he found Cougar struggling with that scar-faced dickhead. The hat had rolled clear, so Jake grabbed a fallen guard’s rifle and shot him in the head. Cougar pulled him down to lie behind the body and grabbed the guy’s weapon, and they helped Pooch take out any last mercs Aisha had missed.

They checked everyone out and cut off all the restraints. Clay was still unconscious, but he was breathing okay. Nate had taken a ricochet to the arm. It was just a superficial flesh wound but he was a little pale and sweaty, and Sophie was ripping up one of the guard's shirts as a bandage. The Leverage crew'd had the sense to lie flat when the shooting started, and no one else was wounded. Jake let out a shaky breath.

Aisha appeared from between the stacks, still in her borrowed harness. She went straight to Clay and crouched over him as his eyelids flickered and he groaned, rubbing his jaw. “It’s over,” she said. "I killed them.”

Jake was going to protest that they’d helped out some as well, but Cougar took his arm and drew him away. Oh, right, Clay and Aisha were having a moment.

“Max?” Clay croaked.

“Killed him. Blew him up,” she said with satisfaction.

“Outstanding,” Clay said. He frowned. “Plan to kill me, too?”

“Why would I do that?” She was oddly calm.

Clay swallowed, and winced. “Your father. He had one of the kids hostage, was going to kill him.” Clay looked up at her. “I shot Fadhil.”

Aisha stared back. “Yes, I guessed as much,” she said at last. “I _should_ kill you, but I will…defer judgement. You helped me take revenge on Max – it is a blood debt. Perhaps one day when that is paid...”

“Excellent, a suspended sentence,” said Clay. “Help me?” She pulled him up so he was sitting, and then they were in each other’s arms.

Jake was enjoying the show, but Cougar dragged him off. Cougs had his hat back and Jake grinned at him happily. He surveyed the scene, high on adrenaline. Pooch was squinting at the jet which was visible again, the smoke from Aisha's blast having dispersed. The fireball seemed to have missed it.

Jake paused. The fireball, fuck, the _fireball_ , and Max, and the remote pressure trigger. There wasn't even a body, just a blackened scar on the tarmac. “The snukes, we forgot the fucking snukes!” Jake yelled.

Pooch spun away from checking out the plane. “We need to drive back?”

“Yeah,” gasped Jake, already running for the Hummer, Pooch and Cougar with him. “If it’s a long countdown, we might be able to…Hardison, can you disarm a sonic dematerializer bomb?”

“Uh, no?” panted Hardison beside them. “Unless ’s mostly electronics. I can probably–”

Then Jake heard it, and stumbled to a stop. For a long, crazy moment, he thought the jet was taking off. It wasn’t a jet engine noise, though, it was…

A sleek Ducati motorbike roared into view and skidded to a halt. Spencer leapt off the back and Roque parked it showily. Jake and the others ran over, then Jake had to put his hands on his knees and lean forward, fighting nausea. Man, running sure sucked when you’d been beaten half to death.

“The bomb,” Pooch said, “Did you–“

“All taken care of,” Spencer said.

“Really?” asked Jake, straightening. “You disarmed it?”

"Me 'n Roque, yeah," Spencer said.

Parker pushed through and hung on Spencer’s arm, smacking a big kiss to his cheek. “Thought he was just the muscle, huh?” she said proudly. “Think again.” Spencer blushed and grinned, looking down at his feet.

“Nice ride,” Cougar said to Roque, who was stroking the Ducati’s tank possessively. Like it was a woman’s ass, thought Jake. Or Clay’s ass. He hastily squelched that line of thought.

A roar started up behind Roque, and Jake saw that this time it _was_ the goddamn jet, firing up its engines. Shit, they hadn’t checked if there was a pilot on board, how fucking stupid could–

With a cry of rage, Parker took off, running full tilt, Pooch close on her heels. Jake groaned, but Roque and Spencer were with them and his head was pounding like there was a brass band in there, so he gave up and just watched as the plane started to trundle slowly forward. They were never going to reach it in time, and even though the passenger door was still open, the steps bouncing, the pilot was clearly going to chance it so as to make a getaway. No wonder, really, with Max dead, a bunch of trained killers on the tarmac, and a plane full of cash. Jake would have done the same, if he’d been whoring himself out to a mass-murdering megalomaniac.

Parker stopped, unhitched something from her belt, whirled it around her head and flung it at the jet like a lasso. Her climbing grapple, Jake realized, and for one mad second he thought she was going to stop the plane like a gaucho using bolas to take down a fleeing calf. The grappling hook just caught the slow-moving jet, curving over the fuselage and lodging somewhere in the far wheel struts. Roque threw his jacket over the super-strong line and he and Spencer grabbed it and hung on to the line and to Parker, and amazingly, the jet, which was still moving slowly, faltered just a little. Cougar was there then, and Hardison and Sophie, and fractionally, the jet slowed.

Pooch hadn’t stopped. He was still running flat out and in a final burst he flung himself forward, catching the flimsy passenger steps and hauling himself up by the railing, legs flailing. He fell inside the doorway and vanished. The plane veered sharply left, then right, then the engines cut out and it slowed to a halt. Moments later, a guy dressed as a pilot was booted out the doorway to sprawl on the tarmac below.

Jake looked back and caught Clay’s eye. “Outstanding,” they said together, grinning.

Aisha put a hand up and cocked her head. “Listen.”

Jake strained to hear. In the distance, there were sirens, lots of them, getting closer.

“Police,” said Aisha. She helped Clay stand.

Roque dashed back for the Ducati and bullied Spencer and Cougar into helping him heft it up the steps. Under the fuselage, Parker disentangled her grapple.

“Oh jeez,” said Jake, shoe-horning himself into the over-full cabin, which was largely occupied by big plastic-wrapped stacks of cash. It wasn’t 400 mill, thank fuck, or they’d never be able to get off the ground, but it was a hell of a lot. “How much weight can this thing lift?”

Pooch stuck his head around from the cockpit. “Those seats've got to go,” he said, “and anything else we don’t need.”

“We’re not dumping the money,” Parker said, clutching one of the blocks of cash.

“Or the Ducati,” glowered Roque.

“Okay, okay, Christ,” Jake said, helping Cougar and Hardison rip out the last few seats and throw them out the door. “No lifejackets, fire extinguishers or seat-belts and nothing to fucking _sit_ on, but we got a hundred million bucks and a ginormous motorbike. I’m pretty sure that meets all the important FAA standards.” Cougar retracted the steps, slammed the door shut and locked it.

The sirens were loud now, even inside the plane – Jake figured the cops had reached the main gates. “Now or never, Pooch,” he yelled.

Pooch wasted no time, taxiing away from their pursuers. Jake hoped that meant he’d sussed out where the wind was coming from and wasn’t just high-tailing it. He tried to relax. Wind direction was the sort of shit Pooch just knew.

They slowed, making a tight turn, then poised for a beat and started rolling forward, picking up speed. “Any of you godless motherfuckers still got an in with your deity, now’s the time to get in fucking touch,” Pooch shouted. Aisha was grim-faced, muttering something in Pashto with a lot of insha'Allahs in it. Cougar had one hand on the gold cross around his neck and his other hand in Jake’s. Jake didn’t think there was a god of computers, no matter what Gaiman said, so he just leaned back against a million or so bucks and held on tight to Cougar.

There was a bad moment when the jet lifted, then bounced, engines laboring, then it almost sagged upward, sluggish as all hell before it smoothed out, engines roaring. Pooch brought them around in a slow banking turn and Jake caught a flash of dark-uniformed figures down below, gazing up, then there was nothing but the hazy L.A. sky.

Clay blew out a breath. “Sweet fucking Jesus. So where're we headed?”

“Somewhere very goddamn close,” Pooch shouted from the cockpit.

“Vegas it is,” Clay said.

 

+0+0+0+0+

 

**Four Months Later**

 

Clay leaned back on his elbows in the afternoon sunlight and grinned up at them. He'd hoped they'd be able to make it, but Nate hadn't been sure. “Good to see you again.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Nate said, dusting off the bench next to Clay with a handkerchief while the rest of his crew climbed the bleachers and found places on the level behind them. Nate ushered Sophie into the seat he'd cleaned. “Sophie’s a big soccer fan.”

“Hi Clay,” Sophie said, smiling warmly – she looked good in jeans and a baseball cap. She turned to survey the field, narrowing her eyes. “Our team’s in pink, right?”

“Yep,” said Clay. “The Petunias. Jensen’s niece is number 21,”

Behind them, Jensen leaned forward, watching avidly. “Go, girls!” he shouted, grabbing the binoculars from Cougar, who rolled his eyes at Clay.

“Oh, wow,” said Sophie, noticing Pooch and Jolene on the bench below. She leaned forward between them, admiring the baby in Jolene’s arms. “He’s gorgeous.” Jolene beamed.

“Hey there,” Pooch said. “Jolene, this’s Sophie.” He craned around. “And Nate as well.”

Nate waved. “Hi.” He grinned down at the baby. “He really is very cute. What’s his name?”

“Sam,” said Jolene. “After my father.”

“Samuel Linwood Porteous,” Pooch added proudly.

Jensen and Cougar suddenly sprang to their feet, and Clay saw that number 21 was down, knocked over by a player in a Marigolds shirt. Those Marigolds girls were bruisers.

Jensen clattered down the steps and dashed onto the field, shouting about foul play.

“Uh oh,” said Clay. “Cougar, Spencer–”

“On it,” Spencer said, following Cougar hastily down the steps, Hardison and Parker on their six.

“Damn,” said Pooch. “I got a hundred bucks riding on this.” Jolene glared at him and he shrugged.

“They’ll handle it,” Nate said. “Watch.”

Jolene passed Pooch the baby. “Just for that, you’re doing the next the diaper change.”

“What? No, I got to keep an eye on the game,” Pooch protested. He turned and passed the baby to Roque. “Here, man.”

Roque held the baby up like he was a live grenade. The kid gurgled cheerfully and waved his chubby arms. “What do I..?”

“Just no knives,” Pooch said distractedly, focused on the action down on the field.

Roque turned helplessly to Aisha. She glared at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

On the field, Jensen was toe to toe with the formidably-built referee, gesticulating and yelling something about elbow infractions. The ref gave him as good as she got, repeatedly blowing her whistle in his face and yelling at him to get off the field.

Spencer looked up into the bleachers and caught Clay’s eye, raising an eyebrow. Clay nodded and all four of them piled on, grabbing Jensen and dragging him off the ref then back to the edge of the field, before chivvying him up the bleachers and back into his seat. Clay saw that Jensen’s niece had been helped up by her friends and looked none the worse.

The ref sneered up at Jensen and reached for her whistle. She looked baffled, patted her chest then looked vaguely around before turning in a slow circle, peering at her feet. After a moment, she shrugged and shouted at the teams to resume play.

Clay looked back over his shoulder. Jensen was still muttering and being cheered up by Cougar who had an arm around his shoulders. His sister sat on Jensen’s other side, busy with a video camera. Hardison gave Clay a Vulcan salute, and Spencer leaned back, eyes shut, basking in the sun. Beyond him, Parker waved at Clay, smirking. The referee’s whistle hung around her neck.

Clay grinned and turned back to watch the rest of the game.

“So,” Nate said casually after a couple of minutes. “There’s this job…”

 

\- the end -

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Clay's Eleven (The Max Job) [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4602522) by [kisahawklin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisahawklin/pseuds/kisahawklin)




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